The Wrong Man
by YellowDancer
Summary: Apostate, abomination, murderer. He was the last person Andraste would have chosen as her Herald. But here he was closing rifts with a mark on his hand, the wrong man for the job, but the only one who could do it. The Maker must have a wicked sense of humor.
1. A martyr's smile

**Author's note: **

**I know I'm not the first one to come up with this, because after it occurred to me I found at least three people online who had the same idea. I'm not trying to copy any of them. I'm just trying to work through some of my feelings about Inquisition, especially the way it treats the second game. Perhaps I've played Dragon Age II too many times, but I was unsatisfied with the minimal references to its characters within Inquisition. I'd really been hoping for something like Mass Effect 3, or even the cameos in Dragon Age II, where you go on a little side quest with one of the characters from the previous game, get to see them in the new engine and catch up a little. Reading a short report about them or hearing Hawke or Varric give a brief explanation of what they are doing now just wasn't enough for me, especially when I see so much potential for tying up loose ends.**

**I was also troubled by how dismissive everyone is of Anders, even Varric, who surprised me with his bitterness. Yes, Anders did something reprehensible, but it was also obvious that he wasn't in his right mind at the end. For all the faults of DA2, I thought it was ambitious of them to attempt such a dramatic character arc in a video game. I'll admit I also have a bit of a soft spot for Anders and would like to see him get a little redemption, though it's obvious Bioware's writers have no interest in exploring that. So, the only solution for me is to try to explore it myself. I know Anders can be a pretty divisive character in the fandom, but I hope you'll come along with me on this journey.**

* * *

><p>Climbing up the ramparts with the elf, Varric eyed the ugly green mess in the sky with a look of disgust. This whole latrine-in-the-heavens-that-poured-out-demons thing had all the earmarks of a major epic, but he just wasn't sure if he had it in him to write an odyssey of such proportions—especially when he was already referring to it as a latrine. His specialty was in the little character moments, the everyday interactions that eventually led to the turning points in the plot. But a hole in the sky? That was a completely different scope. That was world-wide chaos and heros of a bigger scale than even the Hero of Ferelden—and that hadn't been his story to tell. The Champion of Kirkwall was small beans compared to that—no offense, Hawke.<p>

Shaking his head, he jumped over a broken wall and hefted Bianca as more screaming demons leapt through the rift ahead. "Out of the frying pan and into the damn fire," he muttered under his breath.

"Hm?" Solas looked back at him in confusion.

"Forget it, Chuckles. Let's just fight."

The battle was well underway when reinforcements arrived, the Seeker and the prisoner they had found in the middle of the Temple of Sacred Ashes' ashes. Varric hadn't gotten a look at him yet, but the mage flung elemental magic with the best of them. And that mark on his hand was nearly blinding when it connected with the rift, untangling all the energies and pulling at them until they snapped back into place. It was pretty damn impressive. Varric knew instinctively that he had found the hero of his next story.

Then he turned to actually look at the man and the congratulations died on his tongue. The prisoner had stumbled when the rift closed, the effort clearly taking something out of him. Blond hair obscured his features, falling free from the tie at the back of his head, and when he looked up he froze, honey brown eyes widening as they met Varric's. Anger sparked in Varric's chest, catching fire so quickly that he had no chance to even try to cover his reaction.

"You," he hissed. He had Bianca trained at the mage's head before he had even thought to raise her.

"Varric?" The Seeker's voice was as uncertain as he had ever heard it.

"What happened to his shackles?" Varric demanded, approaching the prisoner with cautious steps. "Lock him up, Seeker, and throw away the key."

"What is going on?" Solas asked.

"He did it. He killed the Divine. Blowing up churches is sort of his thing."

Anders grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut and lifting his hands palm up as if waiting to be bound. The mark on his left hand flared with sickly green light.

Cassandra peered down at Anders curiously, but she made no move to cuff him. "You know him?" she asked Varric. "I thought the Trevelyans were from Ostwick."

"That isn't his name." Varric was close enough now to see the sweat beaded on Anders' brow, the new scar on his cheekbone, the haunted look in his eyes. He didn't care. Back in Kirkwall, he had let Anders under his skin, taken pity on him and actually called in favors to keep him safe. He had counted Anders as one of his closest friends, and then the mage had thrown it all away in the name of a cause that was more unhealthy obsession than worthy goal. His perspective had gotten so jacked by the end that Varric hardly knew how to have a conversation with the man without wanting to kick him in the head—and that would have been a truly improbably feat given their height difference. But instead of setting him straight, sitting him down and arranging an intervention, he had found other more important things to do. He'd let Anders wander off down the path of insanity without lifting a finger to stop him. He might not have lit the fuse for Anders' bomb, but he certainly hadn't tried to dismantle it either.

"I know you have no reason to believe me," Anders pleaded, "but I didn't do it."

Varric blinked. It took him a moment before he realized Anders was talking about the explosion at the conclave. He almost laughed at the absurdity of that. Anders actually thought it might have mattered to Varric that he hadn't blown up one building when he knew for a fact that he'd already blown up another. "Lock him up," he repeated.

"Who is he?" the Seeker demanded.

A sad smile tugged at Anders' chapped lips, and damn if the mage did not have the market cornered on bittersweet smiles. In spite of his anger, Varric felt a pang at the sight, remembering all the times he had let that expression cut right through his defenses. But now he looked at it and saw what it really meant. That was a martyr's smile. Anders wanted to be a martyr so badly it hurt, but Hawke had denied him that easy death and forced him to live with his mistakes. Who was Varric to do any differently?

Lowering Bianca, Varric sighed and looked away. If he told the Seeker the truth, she would probably kill Anders on the spot, and for all they knew that mark on his hand was the only thing that could fix this broken world. Varric's fists clenched. He didn't like where this story was going already.

"Varric." Cassandra wanted an answer, and she was going to find out who Anders was eventually with or without his help. He might as well get the unpleasantness out of the way now.

"My name is Anders."

Varric looked at the mage in surprise, expecting to see his sharp chin lifted with pride, but he seemed resigned instead, shoulders slumped, hands fallen limp at his sides. He was ashamed of his identity. Good.

Cassandra's eyes were burning now. "Anders? The mage who destroyed the chantry in Kirkwall?"

Anders swallowed. "Yes."

"What were you doing at the conclave?"

"Not trying to blow it up, if that's what you're asking."

The Seeker looked less than convinced, and Varric had to admit it was refreshing to see her ire focused on someone other than himself—especially since Anders actually deserved it.

"We don't have time for this," Solas interrupted suddenly. "We can discuss how we all got here after that breach is closed." He pointed to the miasma behind them. "It's getting worse."

Anders started to stand, but Cassandra stopped him with her sword, pressing the blade as close to his throat as she could without breaking the skin. "How do we know we can trust you?"

"Didn't we just have this conversation? You can't, I guess." His eyes flicked over to Varric but didn't linger. "But at the moment I seem to be the only person who can close these rifts, so you can either choose to trust me or hope to find someone else who has the same ability. For what little difference it makes, I do want to help."

The Seeker actually looked at Varric as if for confirmation.

He shrugged. "Don't ask me. I'm not sure I ever really knew him."

"We have to go," Solas reminded.

"Get up," Cassandra hissed, and Anders complied. She shoved him ahead of her, and from his wince she wasn't being gentle. Varric thought he might be starting to like the Seeker.


	2. Freedom isn't free

**Author's note: This scene skips a bit ahead. Rather than retelling every scene of Inquisition, I plan to skip here and there and stick to only the parts that might need to change because of Anders' presence or any additional moments in between scenes from the original. Hope it's not too confusing!**

* * *

><p>Anders hadn't actually expected to wake up again, but even if he had, he would have expected to find himself in a dungeon, not a warm cabin. Blinking up at quaint wooden rafters, he shifted on the bed and tried to get his bearings. A fire flickered cheerfully across the room, and the room was so homey that he felt an ache in his gut just looking at it. He hadn't spent a night in such luxury since… No, best not to think about that.<p>

His head was throbbing, but the pain in his hand had faded after closing the rift. He looked down at the mark, the light still glimmering over his palm and sending occasional sparks of electricity along his nerves. Closing his hand into a fist, he startled when he heard a clatter in the doorway. An elf. He tried to calm her, but he seemed to be pretty awful at it since his words only sent her running out of the room. Grimacing, he rubbed fingers over his aching head and attempted to pull his hair back into some semblance of order. His stubble itched and he longed for a shave, but he had been given more comfort than he deserved already.

The walk to the chantry was even more surreal than his trip through the burnt out Temple of Sacred Ashes. Villagers crowded the streets hoping to get a look at him, all murmuring to each other about the Herald of Andraste. He didn't realize they were talking about him until one of them pointed and cried, "There he is! That's the Herald!" He could only stare in shock. Surely this wasn't actually happening to him. The phrase "kill him with kindness" came to mind, and for the first time in his life he understood what it meant, though he knew the villagers were not intending any harm by their actions. They were just naive. They had no idea who he really was or what he had done. They should have been pointing at him and yelling "murderer," not calling him a bloody savior. If there truly was a god, he must have a wicked sense of humor.

He walked the rest of the way in a daze. Inside the chantry, he met Chancellor Roderick's accusations with stunned silence. He had no idea what to think or how to feel, but he couldn't blame Roderick for his assumptions. He had no answer except what he hoped was true. He and Justice had been in conflict for months, and he could hardly predict his own actions from one moment to the next. But Justice was silent now. Whatever had happened at the conclave, it had caused Justice to retreat so deeply that Anders couldn't hear him anymore.

What he couldn't fathom was why Cassandra and Leliana defended his actions to the chancellor. Or why they kept his true identity secret. They pointedly called him Trevelyan, and acted as if he really were the hero all the peasants outside thought he was. It was only when they declared an Inquisition that things started to make sense to him. This was politics, and these two women were well acquainted with the Game. They had clearly been looking for an opportunity to break away from the Chantry, and the sheer dumb luck of the breach opening in the sky combined with his new skill had provided it to them. They simply needed a reason to rebel they could justify and a greater purpose that would rally the troops.

Once Roderick was gone, all the kindness in their eyes faded.

"Your name is now Trevelyan," Cassandra said, jaw set with determination. "You were a mage in the Ostwick circle who never did anything extraordinary until now. Is that understood?"

"I understand."

"I don't trust you," she continued. "I don't even like you. But the Maker sent you to us for a reason. Perhaps this is your penance for the things you've done, and who are we to question his will? This is now bigger than any of us. The people outside have hung their hopes on you and word of what you've done at the Breach has already spread far and wide."

"You're too important now to kill," Leliana agreed. "But we don't have to like you in order to use you."

Anders felt Justice finally stirring in the back of his mind, but he ignored the grumbling. All he'd ever wanted was to be free, and now he was trapped in the most gilded prison imaginable. Perhaps that was the real lesson here. No one was ever completely free. Not really. "I understand," he said finally.

"Not a word of argument?" Cassandra arched a brow. "Not even a little rant at the injustice? Perhaps the dwarf mischaracterized you in that book of his."

Shaking his head, Anders smiled wearily. "No. I've done enough arguing for a lifetime."

The two women exchanged a skeptical glance, but he didn't really care what they thought. He needed some fresh air. Pushing through the heavy doors, he didn't stop until he was standing outside Haven's front gate. Sucking in deep lungfuls of crisp mountain air, he tried to calm the panic building inside of him. The reality of his powerlessness was as crushing as the claustrophobia of the Deep Roads, but he had to endure it. He had no choice.

"Not planning on escaping, I hope."

His blood froze in his veins the moment he heard that voice. Spinning around he found himself face to face with one of the last people he ever wanted to see again. Cullen wasn't wearing his armor, but he didn't need a metal breastplate or silverite sword to be a templar. The man actually had the gall to smile at Anders—probably enjoying his discomfort—though the curl of his lips had a feral quality.

"You might recall I'm rather good at tracking you down."

"Oh, I remember," Anders whispered. "I suppose they summoned you the moment they found out who I really was."

"Let's just say they were glad to have me along."

Anders scoffed and looked away, watching the soldiers training, swords flashing brilliantly in the sun. He had seen Cullen many times in the City of Chains, but he had always assumed that the templar had forgotten him, perhaps suppressed their shared history after the hell he survived at the tower in Kinloch Hold. "I wasn't sure you even recognized me," he said, surprised by the hollowness in his own voice.

Cullen's lips twisted with bitterness, drawing attention to the scar on his upper lip. "How could I fail to recognize the mage who had the gall to run away seven times?"

"You could have captured me at any time in Kirkwall. Hawke and I were barely talking at the end, so she wouldn't have gotten in the way. What stopped you?"

Cullen lunged toward him and it took every bit of Anders' resolve to resist backing away. Gauntlet clasped in the front of Anders' tunic, Cullen growled in his face, "Don't you think that lapse in judgement has tortured me every day since? You weren't the only one who noticed Meredith's madness, you know."

"Then why didn't you do anything?"

"Well, I didn't blow up a chantry, so I guess that means I wasn't doing anything." He shoved Anders back a step and released him with a scowl of disgust. "There are better ways to make change happen. But I guess you don't have that kind of patience."

"Your patience cost innocent mages their lives, turned them into husks."

"And your lack of patience killed innocents who had nothing to do with those mages or the horrors done to them."

Anders bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He could feel Justice trying to surface in his mind, but he wasn't ready to deal with him yet. "You're right," he said finally, though the words took effort to say.

Eyes widening, Cullen said, "What did you say?"

"You heard me. Taking action and being right are not the same thing. I understand that now. But someone had to do something."

Cullen scowled as he looked away, hands clenching at his sides. "The first step you take out line… I don't care how many people think you were sent by Andraste herself. I will kill you."

Nodding wearily, Anders walked back into Haven. He had no response to death threats at this point. He had expected to be long dead by now anyway.


	3. Anger management

**Author's note: So this is the chapter where I really delve into Varric's anger and try to figure out what's going on. It took me several tries to get it to a place where I was satisfied with the way things played out, but I think it's finally making sense to me. Also, I threw in a little Solas action, because his character's fascination with spirits is one of the reasons I felt like they were setting things up to fix Anders and never delivered. Well, him and Cole, but it's going to take me a while to get to him.**

* * *

><p>Varric stared into the fire, thoughts ricocheting around inside of his head too fast for him to catch. A reflection caught his eye and he saw Solas sit down next to him, firelight casting strange shadows on his bald head. The two of them had next to nothing in common, so he was surprised to see that Chuckles had sought him out, then he remembered the apostate sleeping off a rift hangover in the cabin down the road. Of course Solas wanted to talk to him. This was likely to continue. He was the bloody author of the Champion of Kirkwall, so of course he was an expert on its most tragic character. Nevermind the fact that fiction was his genre of choice and he was prone to embellishment.<p>

"He's harboring a spirit," Solas said without preamble, and Varric appreciated that at least the elf preferred not to beat around the bush.

"You noticed that, huh?"

"A spirit of Justice, I believe. But it has been inside him a long time. Years, maybe."

"Try a decade. I take it you never read my book."

Solas blinked at him. "I have not. Ancient histories are more to my taste."

"You don't say."

Solas looked back at the fire, Varric's sarcasm clearly sailing right over his shiny head. "If we don't do something soon, that spirit will become a demon. Frankly, I'm surprised that hasn't happened already."

"Don't be so sure it hasn't. But aside from killing him or making him Tranquil, I don't know what we could do about it anyway. He says that he and Justice are too jumbled up at this point to ever be separated." Picking up a stick, Varric began drawing patterns in the dirt. "Believe me, if I thought there was a way to fix him, I would have tried years ago."

"Fix him?" Solas turned to him in surprise. "He's not broken."

Varric looked at him through slitted eyes.

"Well, he's not. In fact, what he did was very admirable."

Admirable was about the last word Varric wanted to hear applied to Anders, but Solas didn't seem to notice his annoyance. He also didn't seem to be referring to blowing up a chantry.

"The spirit was trapped outside the fade and he took it into his body in order to save it." Solas held out his hands as if to pantomime holding a baby. "A noble, selfless gesture, though ultimately doomed to failure. Spirits can't exist outside the fade without eventually turning into demons. But he knew no other way to protect his friend." The wistful half-smile on his face made Varric queasy.

"If only the spirit had been as kind to him," he muttered.

Solas pulled away from him as if affronted. "What do you mean?"

"Listen, I know you have a blind spot where spirits are concerned, but this one took my friend away, changed him. Anders will tell you that it was his weaknesses that corrupted Justice, but from the outside it looked exactly like the reverse. Either way, his mistake ended up killing a lot of innocent people. In fact, it's still killing them now. The mage rebellion has taken more lives than it's saved." Breaking the stick in half, he threw it into the fire and watched it burn.

Solas frowned. "Perhaps. Either way, we will have to deal with this at some point. I should tell the others."

"I think they already know. Not everyone is as behind on current events as you are."

Solas pressed a finger against his lips thoughtfully. "There still might be a way to save them both. I know a ritual that could return the spirit to the fade. It would be difficult given how long they have been coexisting, but there is a chance it would work."

Varric chuckled humorlessly. "Good luck with that."

"I would need your help."

"What? Why?"

"I would need someone to keep him grounded through the process or his soul might get pulled into the fade as well."

Varric bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. "Ask someone else." he growled.

"This task requires someone who knows him well. You are the only one here who meets that criteria."

Standing up, Varric began pacing in front of the fire. When he turned he saw Anders walking right toward them. The mage looked as if he had aged a decade overnight. If only he had stayed smug, if only he had kept the self-righteous gleam that had been in his eyes that horrible night in Kirkwall then Varric might have been able to hold onto his anger while looking at him. But the more that Varric looked at him now, all he could see was the broken remnants of the man he had met at the beginning, the one who spent all his time healing others, setting out bowls of milk for kittens and trying to make the world a better place. Varric hadn't seen that man in a long time, and he didn't want to see him now, not when looking at him made it so hard to stay angry.

Solas stood up beside Varric, watching Anders approach with a pained expression. "It will take time to collect the necessary items for the ritual. I'll let you know when I'm ready."

The elf walked away and the movement drew Anders' attention, but as soon as he saw Varric, his expression fell even further. Barely looking at him, Anders walked up to the fire and sat down, bowing his head as if preparation for a blow. "Go ahead," he said.

Puzzled, Varric crouched down to get a better look at his face. "And do what?"

"I don't know. Whatever it is you've been wanting to do. Go ahead."

Varric punched the dirt next to Anders' knee and he flinched. "Would you stop playing the martyr? It makes me sick."

Anders swallowed, and Varric could almost see the emotions washing over him like waves against a cliff. His back curved, his shoulders hunched and then he just crumbled, burying his face in hands with a soundless sob. This was exactly the kind of anguish that Varric had wished on him. He'd wanted Anders to suffer for what he'd done and he'd expected to feel vindicated watching it happen, but in reality it only turned his stomach.

"I don't know what to do." Anders' voice was muffled by his hands and Varric had to strain to hear his words. "Everyone wants me dead, but no one more than I do. I know I wouldn't be a martyr. I would die a villain and that's probably what I deserve. I wanted change the world, and I did. But change brings chaos. You can't control the outcome." He looked up but was still hiding behind his hands, damp cheeks glimmering in the firelight. "Justice gave me a purpose, a righteous quest. It felt so good to be free of doubt, but that kind of certainty comes with a price. I lost myself along the way."

"What are you saying? That Justice was the one who…?"

"No." Anders straightened, wiping at his face with his sleeve. "I can't dodge the blame so easily. Justice and I brought out the worst in each other despite our best intentions. I don't think I would have ever done such things without him, but I'm just as culpable as he is."

Varric rolled his eyes and sat down beside him with a sigh. "That doesn't exactly make me feel better."

Anders looked at him and smiled, that little lopsided smirk that was his trademark, but it was all wistful, full of pain, and Varric just wanted to slap it off his face. "I'm sorry."

Varric turned to stare at the fire.

"I wanted to kill myself afterward, but Justice wouldn't let me. He said we had too much left to do. I started losing track of time and place as he began taking control more often. I don't even know how I ended up at the conclave. I came back to myself after the explosion, and by then it was too late to do anything."

"You really don't remember what happened?" The anger began simmering inside of Varric again as he considered the implications.

"Just fragments here and there. It's maddening. I feel like there's something important I should be remembering, but I just...can't. There was someone else there. Remember the visions projected by the rift? I can't recall that moment myself, but it's obvious I didn't kill the Divine. Someone else was responsible."

"But what if Justice…"

"No! I refuse to believe we were involved." Anders' breaths were coming fast and shallow on the verge of hyperventilation, and Varric wondered if he had pushed him too far, if he was about to get another glimpse of the spirit inside him. He didn't know what he would do if that happened, but he didn't think it boded well for Anders. But eventually Anders regained control, hands trembling against his knees as he tried to slow his breathing. Varric watched him struggle and felt his anger calm again. In spite of everything, he wanted to believe him. He wanted Anders to be innocent this time.

The silence dragged on as Anders collected himself and the storyteller in him ached to fill the space with words, to find some way to lighten the tragedy, if only for a moment. He didn't know what to say, so he just said the first thing that came to mind. "Chuckles thinks he can send Justice back into the fade."

Looking up, Anders blinked at him in confusion. "Why would he want to? Did you ask him about it?"

"Me? No." I don't really care what happens to you anymore. He wanted to say it, but he couldn't, not when he was looking at those wounded brown eyes. "He is concerned about Justice. He has a real soft spot for spirits and can't stand to see them turn into demons."

"I see," Anders said quietly.

"He wanted my help." Varric looked back at the fire. "Apparently the process could kill you." He could feel Anders watching him, the weight of his gaze almost unbearable.

"But you would rather let me die." Anders sounded calm as if he thought that was a perfectly reasonable response. He even reached out as if to pat Varric's arm in reassurance but pulled back when he saw Varric flinch. "It's okay," he said softly. "I understand."

All of Varric's anger come back in a single instant, burning through him with the heat of one of Anders' fireball spells. "It's not okay," he roared, turning on the man he'd once called a friend with no idea what he was about to do. "I'm not like that. I don't leave friends to die. Not even Bartrand brought this out in me. But you..."

Varric's hands were clenched in Anders' lapels and he had knocked the mage off balance, practically pinning him to the dirt as he screamed in his face. But Anders just looked back at him with understanding and acceptance in those damn soft eyes, lying prone in the face of his wrath without fear, and that lack of resistance made Varric want to tear him apart. But that wasn't like him either.

Forcing himself to pull away, Varric finished in a whisper. "You brought out something inside of me I didn't know existed, something ugly I didn't think I was capable of feeling, much less acting on."

"I'm sorry," Anders said again, and this time there was no smile. Anders' face was void of emotion, and Varric wondered if this is what he would look like if he were made Tranquil. He hated it.

"I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to fix it."

"How?" Anders' voice broke on that word.

"I don't know." Varric scrubbed at his jaw. "But maybe that thing on your hand is the key. Do enough good and maybe it'll start to tip the scales."

Anders looked hungrily at the fire as if he wanted to crawl inside it. "I spent years in Kirkwall healing others, doing whatever I could to help the mages without causing harm. I saved so many lives. But one act of desperation wiped away all the good I'd done. How can a few good deeds now make up for anything?"

And suddenly Varric felt exhausted as if he had been running for days. Emotions were not his thing, and grudges even less so. They were against his nature and the effort of keeping one alive for even this long was tearing him up inside. But he couldn't let Anders off the hook. Not yet. "I don't know. But you'd better figure it out." Walking away, he left him there, feeling a pang in his chest for doing so, but he didn't look back.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: I'm curious to know what you thought about it. Do the emotions ring true to you? Drop me a line if you have thoughts.<strong>


	4. Death by kitten

Their trip to the Hinterlands was a quiet one. That wasn't to say it was peaceful, because that couldn't be farther from the truth. They fought wild animals, rebel mages, templars and demons, and by the time they reached the crossroads, Anders was low on mana and his hand ached from all the rifts they had closed. But they'd barely talked to each other on the way, any of them. Varric refused to meet his eyes and Cassandra was too focused on their destination for small talk, though she spent enough time watching him to make his skin crawl. Solas was the only one who talked at all, but he only babbled about the things he'd seen on his journeys, talking in light, cheerful tones as if he had completely failed to notice the tension in the air.

They met with Mother Giselle and her overwhelming compassion and kindness made Anders gag. He knew that even someone as kind-hearted as her would be disgusted to know who he really was. But he kept his secret well, finding that he was starting to believe the lie of his identity, if only to keep himself from slipping up. He was Trevelyan, a hapless mage from Ostwick who had been living his life quite happily in a circle tower until he got caught in the crossfire, all because of some asshole in Kirkwall who thought he was going to change the world. Being Trevelyan was a relief—like escaping from his own life, and he'd always been a fan of running away from his problems. But the truth was that he couldn't trick himself for very long before something would remind him. A glimpse of Varric's glowering face. A burnt-out village filled with templars and mages fighting. The displaced refugees huddling together for warmth. He had caused all this.

But he could only contain so much angst and regret. Collecting pain and brooding over it wasn't actually in his nature, though his behavior over the last few years might have made it seem otherwise. At one point in his life, he'd actually been an optimist, making the most of what was given and finding the loopholes when that wasn't enough. He couldn't go on this way. If death wasn't an option, then he was going to have to find a way to live.

Cassandra directed them to take a break after their latest delivery of clothing and supplies to the refugees. She wandered off to talk to the soldier in charge of the camp, and the rest of them dispersed. Anders was tempted to follow Varric but wasn't feeling bold enough for another conversation with the dwarf, not after the way their last one had gone. He saw Solas perusing the items at a merchant's table and decided to join him.

The merchant was surprisingly well-stocked considering the chaos, enough so that Anders suspected he was not be the original owner of most of his inventory but simply the one who had found the items. Some of them were unusual, including the one that had caught Solas' eye, an intricate statue of a wolf carved from pale wood.

"How much for this one?" Solas asked, turning the object over in his hands.

The merchant leaned over to look. "That one? Two hundred gold."

"Surely you jest. I wouldn't pay more than fifty."

"Do you see how old that artifact is? Two hundred would be a steal."

The two haggled a bit more, and eventually Solas talked him down to a reasonable price. Tucking the statue into a pouch, Solas turned to Anders. "Herald. Did you need something?"

"No," Anders answered quickly. "Just browsing." He followed Solas back toward the center of the crossroads. "That statue you purchased. It's Dalish, isn't it?"

"It is." Solas smiled fondly. "Before you ask, I am not one of the People. But I appreciate their handiwork."

"You are from one of the cities, then?"

"No. I'm not so easy to put into a category."

"I didn't—I mean, I wasn't…"

Smiling, Solas held up a hand to stop him. "Please, Herald, I took no offense. I grew up in a small village, but I have spent most of my life traveling on my own."

"That must be lonely."

"Not at all. I have made many friends in the spirit realm." He looked up at Anders as if waiting for him to offer something about himself in return.

Anders swallowed and looked away from the elf's expectant gaze. "Varric told me about your conversation. I know you're aware of Justice."

"I am. He must be a good friend."

Wincing, Anders tried to think of a way to respond that wouldn't sound selfish. "He was. I don't know that I recognize him much anymore. But, I suppose I don't recognize myself much anymore either."

"I am amazed that you have coexisted together for so long. Such a thing should not be possible, yet here you are."

Anders nodded, picking his next words carefully. "Varric said you wanted to send Justice back into the Fade."

Solas' eyebrows lifted. "It is not a matter of desire, but necessity. He cannot remain here forever without consequence."

"Oh, the consequences have been happening for some time, I'm afraid. But I have a hard time imagining that we could ever be separated again. We are too intertwined."

"It would take careful, diligent work, but I believe it's possible. There would be considerable risk to the endeavor, but no more than you are already risking every day he remains here."

Mouth suddenly parched, either from fear or anticipation, Anders licked his lips and looked down at his boots. "I need time to consider this. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else."

"As you wish."

"Thank you."

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Cassandra joined them on the path. Pointing ahead of them, she said, "The horse master lives on a farm to the west. We need to get moving if we're going to reach him before nightfall." She took the lead and Solas fell in behind her. Anders followed at a distance, needing some space to think.

He didn't realize that Varric had hung back with him until the dwarf cleared his throat. "You've done a lot of good today," he said, and Anders peered at him in surprise. "Even with the rebel mages. I thought you would hesitate at their camp, but you didn't."

Anders took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It was necessary. Those mages used the rebellion as an excuse to do whatever they wanted, and innocent bystanders got caught in the middle. I know something about that sort of mistake."

Looking up, Varric studied him long enough that he tripped over a rock. Cursing under his breath, he caught himself against a tree and had to jog to catch up. Anders looked back to see if he was all right, but the dwarf waved him off. "You know me and nature. We're not mortal enemies, but we're not exactly allies either."

Anders nodded, remembering other walks through the woods long ago, other conversations, and aching for the easy friendship they had once had. "I'm curious," he said, keeping his voice light, "what kind of elaborate punishments did you come up with for me?"

Varric looked at him in confusion and dismay, and for a moment he wondered if the dwarf had forgotten the game they often played in Kirkwall. They had brainstormed elaborate punishments for all of their adversaries over the years, though they'd never actually acted on any of them.

When he remained silent, Anders asked, "Boiling in oil? No, you always thought that one was too prosaic."

A glimmer of recognition flashed in Varric's eyes and his expression softened—not much, but a little, and that was better than nothing.

Encouraged, Anders continued, "How about stringing me up in the Gallows next to Meredith's statue? Or delivering me to Starkhaven with a great big bow on my head? Sebastien would be more than happy to see me, I'm sure. He did vow revenge, after all. No, I know! Find the darkest, loneliest pit in the deep roads and leave me in it to starve or go mad, whichever comes first." He sucked in a breath, trying not to panic as Varric continued looking at him with something like horror in his eyes. "Come on, Varric. Surely you have a suggestion."

"I don't know. You've clearly been thinking about this enough for both of us." The weariness in his tone was painful to hear, and Anders realized he had misstepped. Again.

Slumping, Anders fell silent, wishing he hadn't tried to push things. Just because Varric was talking to him again didn't mean he was any less angry.

"Okay, I've got one," Varric said suddenly. "Locked in a glass cage in a room full of kittens, able to only see and not touch."

Anders smiled. "Good one! But a bit too kind. You should blindfold me so I can only hear them. Or you could just stick them in the box with me and slowly fill it with water so they claw me to death. Death by kitten. It sounds almost pleasant."

"You always were better at this game than I was." Varric placed a hand lightly on his arm, the tiniest of smiles tugging at his lips, but even that was enough. "And you might actually be better at punishing yourself than anyone else could be, Blondie."

Anders felt warmth blossom in his chest at the sound of his old pet name, though he wasn't sure how to take Varric's statement. He was afraid to read too much into it, but he felt relieved just the same.

"Rift!" Cassandra called back to them over her shoulder, sickly green light reflecting off her armor. And then they were off, fighting more demons and closing another rift. The Hinterlands were beginning to feel like one long chore.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: Not sure if anyone remembers the party banter I was referencing at the end. It's one of my favorites, an early one before Anders becomes all argumentative and cranky every time he opens his mouth. There's even a point later in the game where Varric tries to resurrect the game and says something along the lines of "Go away, Justice. Can Anders come out and play?" when Anders shuts him down. <strong>

**Also, anyone who has played Inquisition will probably understand my comment about the Hinterlands at the end. It's fun at first, but if you stay there too long the game just seems to grind to a repetitive halt.**


	5. Witty Graffiti

**Author's note: This chapter picks up with the Address the Chantry quest. I'm struggling a bit with how much of the dialogue/interactions from the game to keep as is and how much to change, so if you find some dialogue in here that sounds familiar, it's because I've copied it directly from the game to be accurate. But there are places where I've tweaked it slightly.**

* * *

><p>Val Royeaux was even more pretentious than Varric had expected, and he'd expected quite a bit of pretense. The streets were literally gilded, ten times more manicured than Hightown, and the people were exquisitely dressed in finery and masks, glittering as if it were a feastday instead of just another random Tuesday. Even the graffiti was witty! Varric groaned. The whole charade made his head spin—or maybe that had more to do with how often he was rolling his eyes—and they hadn't even gotten to the chantry yet. Things were likely to only go downhill from there.<p>

Looking over at Anders just to have something to look at that wouldn't give him a headache, Varric tried to judge how well the mage was holding up under all the stress. He didn't like what he saw: slumped shoulders, clenched jaw and lips fixed in a frown. The Seeker had given Anders an earful before they entered the city, and the lecture had been blunt enough that it made even Varric feel uncomfortable. Cassandra didn't want Anders interacting with anyone. She was to be in charge of all conversations with chantry representatives, nobles or anyone else of import who crossed their path, and he was to keep his reactions to himself. She had even wanted to make him wear a mask, fearing that someone might recognize him, but he had assured her that he had never been to Orlais before, and it was doubtful that anyone else he knew would be in the city.

Varric couldn't figure out where her sudden paranoia had come from—they had been wandering across half of Ferelden without such precautions, after all—but maybe it was just anxiety about their meeting with the chantry. If the Herald's presence hadn't been required for this particular operation, he suspected she would have been happier to just leave Anders back in Haven. And now everyone got to be unhappy about it together. But it was the silence that was killing him. Walking down the perfect streets was bad enough without doing it with a group of silent companions. He ached for the days when he would wander around Kirkwall with Hawke and the strays she had collected over the years, laughing, arguing and just generally being a public nuisance. He would have even preferred a little spat with choirboy over this eternal silence.

Looking up at Anders, Varric recalled the easy banter they had once shared and decided that grudges were simply more work than they were worth if they made a person just as miserable as the one they were trying to punish. "Hey Blondie," he said lightly, deciding to take a chance. "Did you see the mask on that noblewoman back there? It practically covered her entire head! Do you think she's really that ugly or just that bad at hiding her reactions?"

A glimmer of humor flickered to life in Anders' eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, but the Seeker's glare made him snap it shut again. Swallowing, he gave Varric an apologetic look and then went back to looking despondent. The Seeker might actually be even more of a buzzkill than Justice. Sighing in frustration, Varric resigned himself to the silence.

Eventually they entered the market, the place where Leliana's agent had warned them that the templars would be waiting, and he actually welcomed all the shouting and noise simply for the contrast it provided. A chantry mother stood on a dais speaking to the crowd. When she saw them approaching, she shifted her attention to Anders.

"Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet. The maker would send no mage in our hour of need!"

Cassandra stepped in front of Anders, though it was questionable whether the gesture was intended as a way to protect him or keep him silent. "The Inquisition is not your enemy. We seek only to end this madness before it is too late."

"It's already too late," the Mother protested, gesturing to a group of templars approaching the podium. "The templars have returned to the chantry. They will face this 'Inquisition' and the people will be safe once more."

Then the strangest thing happened. One of the templars punched the Mother in the face. Another templar stopped him, an older man who was wearing the symbol of the Seekers on his armor, but he didn't exactly seem angry about the incident. The crowd shifted impatiently around them, and Varric took a step closer to Anders, fingers itching to reach for Bianca.

"You're not here to deal with the Inquisition?" someone in the crowd demanded.

The Seeker on the podium looked out across the crowd with an acidic smirk. "As if there were any reason to."

"Lord Seeker Lucius," Cassandra spoke up. "It's imperative that we speak with…"

"You will not address me."

"Lord Seeker?" Varric didn't think he had ever seen Cassandra so out of her element. She looked almost childlike in her shock.

"Creating a heretical movement," Lucius continued, stepping off the podium toward her. "Raising up a puppet as Andraste's prophet. You should be ashamed. You should all be ashamed. The templars failed no one when they left the chantry to purge the mages. You are the ones who have failed, you who leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!"

Varric noticed then that Anders' breathing had gone ragged, and he turned to look at him just as the mage squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head in concentration, the faintest flickers of blue light sparking from behind his eyelids and streaking under his skin. Panic hit Varric like a kick in the gut. Gripping Anders' arm, he hissed, "Keep it together, Blondie."

Anders nodded emphatically, but didn't say a word, too focused on his internal battle to respond. Standing on his other side, Solas touched a hand lightly to Anders' temple, murmuring something under his breath. Whatever that was about, it seemed to help because Varric immediately felt Anders begin to relax, his breathing slowing to a more normal pace. Stroking a hand over his back reassuringly, Varric looked around to see if anyone else had noticed Anders' close call. Luckily, they were all too focused on the argument between the two Seekers to notice much else.

"I will make the templar order a power that stands alone against the void," Lucius snarled in Cassandra's face. "We deserve recognition. Independence. You have shown me nothing. And the Inquisition less than nothing." Taking a step back, he shouted to his men. "Templars, Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march."

When he was gone, Cassandra spun back around to face them, features lit with righteous indignation. "Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?"

Trying to distract from Anders' current state, Varric stepped in front of him and nodded in the direction of the retreating templars. "He's a charming fellow. Do you think he can be reasoned with?"

Cassandra frowned, following his gaze. "I hope so. If not him, then there are surely others in the order who feel differently." Nearly vibrating with frustration, she went over to talk to the Mother who had confronted them before.

Varric turned back to Anders and was relieved to see him looking much more like himself, though he looked as tired as if he had just finished running laps around the market.

"This cannot continue," Solas said quietly.

"He caught me off guard," Anders argued, voice thready and deep. "He's been so quiet since the conclave. I wasn't prepared."

"And preparation would have prevented the danger? We must do something soon."

"I just need a little more time."

Shaking his head, Varric turned away. He had gotten tired of hearing Anders defend Justice too long ago to bother listening to his flimsy excuses now.

The Seeker stalked back over to them when she had finished arguing with the Mother. "We should return to Haven."

Varric couldn't agree more, but they weren't able to walk even a block before another interested party interrupted them. When the Seeker greeted her as Grand Enchanter Fiona, the leader of the mage rebellion, Varric immediately looked at Anders afraid that they might already knew each other, but Anders seemed curious rather than concerned. That wasn't entirely surprising. From what rumors Varric had collected after Kirkwall, Anders had actually spent very little time with the rebellion. His status as a wanted man made any mages traveling with him a target, and many of them resented his actions in the first place.

"I wanted to see this fabled Herald of Andraste with my own eyes," Fiona said, peering around Cassandra to get a better look at Anders. "You're him, aren't you? The Herald?"

"I am." Anders replied, ignoring Cassandra's look of warning. Varric could feel the tension humming in the Seeker even from a few steps away.

Squinting at him, Fiona frowned in concentration. "You look so familiar."

"I don't believe we've ever met, Grand Enchanter," Anders said, appearing to be entirely relaxed, though Varric caught the twitch of his fingers at his sides.

Suddenly Fiona's eyes widened. "Maker's breath. You're Anders!"

Cassandra stiffened, but Anders' expression was the perfect reproduction of innocent confusion. "No...I'm afraid I've never even been to the Anderfels. I'm from Ostwick."

"No…no, I meant…" Fiona stuttered uncertainly.

Anders gasped. "Oh! You mean the Anders? The one who blew up that chantry?" He actually managed a blush, and Varric was beyond impressed; Blondie could be a damn good actor when he put his mind to it. "I didn't know he looked anything like me. My name's Trevelyan. Sorry to disappoint."

"No," Fiona replied, shaking her head slightly. "I'm sorry. I was mistaken."

"What was it you wanted, Grand Enchanter?" Cassandra asked bluntly, stepping between her and Anders to prevent further distraction.

"I overheard your argument with the Lord Seeker," Fiona replied. "If it's help with the breach that you seek, the mages could be of great use to you. You should come to Redcliff. An alliance could help us both."

Varric watched Anders take all this in, seeing the frustration in his eyes at having to listen to the conversation without participating. After a bit more discussion, Fiona and Cassandra exchanged pleasantries and the Seeker led them away. Anders barely even glanced at the Grand Enchanter as they passed her, his expression set with resignation. This could not go on forever. Anders was too proud to let the Seeker push him around like this indefinitely, especially when he knew how badly the Inquisition needed him. He had been killing himself for weeks, working tirelessly on the Inquisition's behalf, and while Varric knew Anders saw the work as penance of a sort—with good reason—he would not take being silenced well. And Varric didn't want to witness whatever happened when Anders finally lost his patience. It was bound to be ugly.

Looking back over her shoulder once they were out of earshot, Cassandra pinned Anders with an angry glare. "I knew we should have covered your head with a sack."

"Hey," Varric said before Anders could snap back at her. "I thought he did a marvelous job. Ever thought of auditioning for Orlesian theatre, Blondie? You'd steal the show."

Cassandra's sigh was expansive. "I just hate all these lies."

"Then you shouldn't have asked me to tell them," Anders retorted. "You're the one who has a problem with who I am."

"Many people already believe you're responsible for Justinia's death. Do you know what they would do to you if they knew your true identity? We need you alive."

"Alive and silent, apparently. You might as well go ahead and make me tranquil now."

"Don't tempt me, mage!"

Varric tried to interrupt, but his protests went unnoticed. He was suddenly missing all the silence he had been hating after their arrival in Val Royeaux, and he suspected he was going to keep missing it all the way back to Haven.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: Don't know if everyone knows what I'm talking about with the witty graffiti, but I'm referring to the commentary on the statues where you first arrive in the city talking abut Malacath's headache and whatnot.<strong>

**Also, I wanted to thank Infinite Carnage for the feedback that made me fill in some of the gaps in my story. When I really started reviewing the plot points in the game, I realized that I had skipped a few major ones along the way. I'm really dying to get to Skyhold, but it's no good to rush things.**


	6. Tevinter Cockroaches

Anders had been to Redcliff once before. It had been on his second escape attempt—or had it been his third? He couldn't remember anymore. Regardless, he had spent an enjoyable night at the tavern with a luscious barmaid before the templars caught up to him and dragged him back to the tower. He couldn't remember her name anymore. Bertha? Bella? Something like that. It was a pleasant memory, one of the few from his days in the circle.

Justice didn't like the memory. Though he was all but incoherent at this point, Justice's intentions were obvious; he wanted to make Anders feel guilty for even considering something so lascivious and self-serving when there were mages to protect. But Anders was not in the mood for more guilt. He'd had enough of it for a lifetime. Still, the constant barrage of emotion was wearing him down. Ever since their encounter with the templars in Val Royeaux, the spirit had been so active and vocal that Anders was fighting a constant headache just from trying to keep their thoughts from bleeding together entirely.

Their reason for coming to Redcliff had helped a little bit, though Justice was starting to get impatient with the length of the journey. Anders was just glad that the others had agreed to make it in the first place. After days of argument, he had managed to convince them to talk to the mages, though Cassandra had insisted on being in charge of the negotiations. He suspected she was only making a token effort toward being impartial, but he would make the most of the opportunity regardless.

Not that she was making things easy. Cassandra had made a point of not including anyone who might be sympathetic to Anders' cause, choosing some of their newest recruits to accompany them instead. Vivienne had been an obvious choice since everyone knew that the First Enchanter made Anders' skin crawl. The fact that Vivienne hadn't been fooled by his fake identity for more than a day only made things worse since she liked to make critiques about his failures as often as she could think of new ways to be spiteful—which turned out to be almost all the time.

Then there was Blackwall. The Grey Warden irritated Anders almost as much as the Madame de Fer, but for entirely different reasons. He was a fraud. Anders had sensed that much as soon as they met. If Blackwall had been what he was claiming to be, Anders would have sensed the taint within him, but he couldn't feel a thing. Granted, he hadn't been around another warden in a long time and he had fewer darkspawn nightmares than he used to have, but he didn't think that sort of sense was something he would ever be able to lose. He didn't know why he hadn't said anything, but he suspected that his intentions were less than noble; keeping this little secret to himself gave him something that was his own, one little piece of control that the others couldn't flaunt over him.

Vivienne sighed loudly, interrupting his thoughts. "This is a waste of time," she said. Shaking dirt from one shiny boot, she looked critically at the village down the road. "These mages should be left to enjoy their glorious freedom while starving to death out here in the dirt and dog shit." He was always amazed that she could speak with such refinement one moment and then throw in a vulgar word the next; he suspected she did it on purpose to catch people off guard.

Gritting his teeth, Anders felt Justice clawing at his mind in an attempt to be heard; though he was tired of trying to think past Justice's constant complaints, he took comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only one who found Vivienne to be irritating.

"Everything all right, dear?" she asked him sweetly. "You look like you just bit into something sour."

"You shouldn't antagonize him," Blackwall said, coming to his rescue for some bizarre reason.

"Whyever not?" Vivienne waved her hand at Anders dismissively. "You do know what he's done, don't you?"

Scowling, Blackwall looked away. "We've all done things we're not proud of."

Vivienne huffed. "Well I haven't."

"We are getting close," Cassandra said. "Let's keep the chatter to a minimum."

A mage greeted them at the entrance to the village to tell them the news that Magister Alexius was now in charge of the mage rebellion. "He's expected shortly. You can speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime."

"Magister?" Vivienne remarked. "Isn't that interesting?"

Cassandra frowned, looking pointedly at Anders. "I don't like this."

"You already didn't like this," he pointed out, walking faster in order to overtake her on the path. He was sick of following, and the truth was that he agreed with her this time, which only made everything worse.

"Slow down," she said, grabbing his arm to enforce the order. "We should walk in together."

"Right. To show them how united we are," he scoffed.

Yanking on his arm, she pulled him to a stop and looked up at him with a furrowed brow. "Why must you be so difficult? We are here because of you, because you pushed and pushed until you finally got your way, and yet you have been disagreeable from the moment we set out. I'd be happy to turn around and head back to Haven right now if you'd rather not be here."

Anders could think of a dozen ways to respond to Cassandra's threat to "turn this Inquisition around and go home," but he refused to rise to the bait. "Let's just get this over with," he said instead, jaw aching with the effort of keeping his annoyance restrained.

Vivenne smirked and made a false effort to hide her smile behind her hand. "Someone's missing their pet dwarf, I think."

"Pet dwarf?" Blackwall echoed blankly. "I don't get it."

"Varric. He and the Herald are thick as thieves from what I hear."

Cassandra's expression soured and Anders looked away. He didn't know how Vivienne always managed to find the chinks in his armor, especially when most of them were weakness he hadn't even been aware of until she prodded at them, but she was right. He was missing Varric. Though things between them were still strained, he knew Varric would have been able to defuse the tensions among their group with only a few choice words. Between the strain of Justice interfering with his thoughts and his lack of control over the situation, Anders could have used the dwarf's unique brand of levity at the moment.

"There's the tavern," Cassandra said with a sigh, nodding at a building a little farther down the street. "Let's 'get this over with,' as you say."

He could feel the wrongness in the room the moment they walked through the door, though he had no concrete reason to think something was wrong. The mages were skittish and uncertain, and Fiona seemed puzzled even as she welcomed them. She was friendly enough in her greeting, but froze when she noticed Anders.

"You...You're him, aren't you? You're Anders."

Anders exchanged an uneasy glance with Cassandra. "I thought we'd resolved this in Val Royeaux. My name is Trevelyan."

A wrinkle formed between Fiona's brows. "Val Royeaux? I haven't been there since before the conclave."

Vivienne laughed. "Fiona, dear, your dementia is showing."

"We saw you in Val Royeaux," Cassandra insisted. "You invited us to come here. You really don't remember?"

Shaking her head, Fiona said thoughtfully, "I suppose it could be magic at work, but why would anyone…?" Dismissing the thought, she continued, "Whoever...or whatever brought you here, I'm afraid I have nothing to offer you. The free mages have already….pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium."

"What?" The startled look on all of the mages' faces said that Anders had been a bit too frank in his reaction, but he honestly couldn't think of anything better to say, so when they remained silent, he repeated it. "What? That's…"

"So typical," Vivienne finished for him. "And here I thought you wanted freedom. Apparently all you wanted was the freedom to choose your own cage."

Justice was screaming in Anders' ears at this point, so loudly that he actually raised a hand to one ear before he remembered that the sound was inside his head. Backing away instinctively from the others, he tried to piece together what Fiona was saying by reading her lips—excuses of some sort—but he couldn't hear them over Justice's outrage. He bumped into a table and stopped, focusing on his breathing in order to keep control, but black spots kept eating away at his vision.

A door opened and shut and he jumped, watching as an older man walked into the tavern and greeted them all with a greasy smile. Anders only caught the man's last name past the roar of anger in his ears: Alexius. He felt a shiver of revulsion run through his body. He recognized the style of the man's clothing as Tevinter, and though he had often dreamed of what it would be like to be a free mage in Tevinter, looking at this man only reminded him of Fenris and the horrid magister who had kept the elf captive. Though he and Fenris had rarely agreed on anything, the elf's stories of slavery had shattered his illusions that Tevinter might not actually be as bad as everyone said it was. And he certainly hadn't sacrificed so much for the mages' freedom only to have them end up as slaves.

Alexius turned to look at him then, a hungry expression on his weathered features. "You are the survivor, yes? The one from the fade? Interesting."

Clenching his hands so tightly that he felt his fingernails break skin, Anders stared back at him mutely, unable to even find his voice. Cassandra eagerly took over the conversation in his stead and he gave up trying to follow it, his focus narrowing entirely to the battle taking place in his own mind. He found himself wishing desperately for Varric, or even Solas, to keep him grounded, but he had only his own will, which was waning rapidly. Words filtered through the chaos, disjointed and nonsensical: Arl of Redcliff left the village...didn't want an incident...close the breach...my son, Felix...ambitious indeed.

"What is happening to you?"

Anders opened his eyes only to see a flash of violently blue light. Shuddering, he pushed back Justice's onslaught and managed to clear his vision enough to see Blackwall standing beside him. Reaching out, he found Blackwall's arm and clutched at it like a drowning man grabs at a piece of flotsam to stay afloat, and simply having a connection to someone helped. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he pushed Justice back into the cage he had started building within his mind. It felt wrong, but he had no choice. He couldn't let Justice hurt anyone else.

Nearly collapsing with exhaustion when he was finished, he released Blackwall and leaned against the nearest surface he could find. "Sorry," he whispered.

A door slammed, and Anders looked up to see that the mages were all gone. His heart fell. This had been the one chance he had to convince the Inquisition to side with the mages and he had wasted it.

Vivienne and Cassandra stood at the center of the room peering down at a piece of paper. "You are in danger," Vivienne read aloud. "It's not exactly a revelation, is it?"

Crumpling the paper in a fist, Cassandra sighed. "Redcliff in the hands of a magister. This cannot stand."

"Are we going to the chantry, then?" Vivienne asked.

"Yes. We need to get to the bottom of this."

When Vivienne followed her out the door, Anders sighed. "I missed something important, didn't I?"

Blackwall shrugged. "Are you going to tell me what that little episode was about?"

"I'd rather not."

Pursing his lips, Blackwall looked at the door. "We'd probably better follow them."

Anders nodded.

The fresh air helped him to shake off his terror, and he was strangely relieved when they discovered a rift waiting for them inside the chantry. He could use a real fight at the moment, and the charming mage who grinned at them as soon as they stepped through the door didn't hurt either. Anders attacked the demons with extra vigor, a little disappointed when he saw that the rift was falling apart so quickly. Raising his hand, he tugged on the energies within the rift and stared into the blinding light long enough for it to leave after images in his vision once the rift was closed.

"Fascinating. How does that work, exactly?" Taking his hand to look at it, the handsome mage leaned close enough for Anders to get a good whiff of his cologne. He smelled good—unbelievably good, like exotic spices and pure masculinity—but Anders didn't need Justice's disapproval of his interest to know it was a bad idea. Still, he couldn't help the bit of longing he felt when the mage looked up at him with eyes that glittered in the firelight. "You don't even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and boom! The rift closes."

"Who are you?" Cassandra demanded before Anders could think of anything intelligent to say.

"Ah. Getting ahead of myself again, I see. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?" The mage's voice rang out in the chantry with theatrical poise.

"Let one Tevinter in," Vivienne sighed, "and suddenly they're scurrying out of all the walls like roaches."

"Now, now," Dorian said, taking Vivienne's comment in stride. "I'm ever so much more handsome than a cockroach."

"Just tell us what's going on," Cassandra said impatiently.

Dorian explained, and even Anders had to raise an eyebrow before his story was done.

"Time magic?" he asked incredulously. "That's just an apprentice's daydream."

"And I helped to develop it when I was Alexius' apprentice. It was still pure theory, then. Alexius could never get it to work. Clearly something has changed. What I don't understand is why he is doing it. Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?"

"He didn't do it for them." They all turned at the sound of the new voice.

"Took you long enough," Dorian said to the young man who had just joined them in the chantry.

Anders didn't recognize him, but everyone else seemed to. He quickly pieced together that the man was Alexius' son and that he wasn't very happy with his father's activities. Apparently Alexius had joined some kind of cult—Tevinter supremacists who called themselves the Venatori—and Alexius had done all of this just to get at the Herald of Andraste. Anders was starting to think that being the center of the story was overrated.

As they dispersed, Dorian vowed to help them take down Alexius, and Anders could tell he wasn't the only one feeling a bit troubled by the prospect. At least this whole scenario seemed to have changed Cassandra's perspective a little bit. She might actually be in support of siding with the mages if it meant keeping a Tevinter magister out of Ferelden politics.

Regardless, Anders was actually relieved to be returning to Haven. Justice had quieted enough to let him hear half of his own thoughts now, but the constant battle for control was exhausting. He didn't want to admit it, but he was starting to wonder if Solas was right. He didn't know how much longer he could go on like this before he ended up where he had been in Kirkwall. And he couldn't let that happen again.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>

**I struggled with this one a bit, partially because I had some preconceived notions about how I thought it was going to go, but a few things surprised me along the way. I was worried about writing Vivienne and Blackwall because I didn't have strong ideas for what to do with them, but they actually came fairly easily to me (and Vivienne's lines from the game on this mission were priceless to start with). The part that gave me the most trouble was the section with Dorian. I had it in my head originally that Dorian and Anders would hit it off immediately and be fast friends, but then I realized that Anders isn't in a place to be open to such things right now—which is one reason why I still haven't decided on a pairing yet. I have a lot of ideas and just can't decide, but feel free to give me your ideas on the topic if you haven't already.**

**Also, if you're starting to get tired of Anders delaying the inevitable with Justice, worry not. The next chapter will force him to finally deal with the situation.**


	7. Secrets Don't Make Friends

**Author's note: And now we finally have a new point of view! I've had this chapter mostly written for a while, so I'm glad to finally be getting here. I had fun writing from Cassandra's perspective for a change. Hopefully it sounds right.**

* * *

><p>Putting her sword away, Cassandra decided she had trained enough for one day. The sun was lighting the mountains on fire as it dropped toward the horizon and a chill breeze was blowing off the frozen lake making her shiver in spite of her thick leather tunic. Stretching out her arms, she looked at the soldiers sparring with a satisfied smile. The Inquisition was growing. She wasn't sure she liked all the ways in which it was growing, but a movement like this tended to take on a life of its own after a while. Many people were drawn in by its pull, and she couldn't be too picky about who volunteered.<p>

"He's staring at you again," Cullen warned, and she didn't need to look to know who he was talking about. She could feel the qunari's eyes on her as easily as she felt the wind whipping at her coat.

"Are you sure he's not looking at you?" she asked with a wan smile.

Cullen cringed, a blush blooming over his pale skin. "Don't say that. I thought I'd made myself extremely clear after the last time."

Shrugging, she said, "Perhaps Iron Bull is simply as stubborn as his namesake."

Despite her teasing, she knew the qunari was focused on her this time—she had excellent peripheral vision—but his mercenary band was useful enough to their cause for her to overlook a little harassment. Pointedly ignoring Iron Bull, she noticed movement down the road by the smithy and turned to look. Blackwall and Solas have a heated discussion as they walked toward the Grey Warden's cabin. She had no idea what the two of them would have to talk about, but the sight immediately made her worry.

Something about Blackwall simply felt off, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was. His claims that the wardens were less organized when there was no Blight were convincing enough, but she still wondered at the fact that he had been off on his own without any communication with his fellow wardens at a time when the rest of the wardens had disappeared. It was just too convenient. But Leliana was often lecturing her on the dangers of paranoia—and she was their Spymaster. If anyone knew when to be suspicious and when to let sleeping dogs lie, it was Leliana. Cassandra knew she should have more faith.

"I wonder what that's all about," Cullen said, following her gaze.

As they watched, Blackwall broke off the discussion and went back into his cabin. Expression more solemn than usual, Solas turned to walk away.

"It is curious," Cassandra commented.

"Looks like trouble," Cullen said, but then one of his soldiers waved to get his attention and he walked away.

Shrugging, Cassandra headed for the gates of the village. She didn't realize that Solas was following her until she reached the top of the stairs.

"Seeker," he said when he got closer. "I need to speak with you."

"What is it?"

"It's about the Herald. Has he spoken to you yet?"

She didn't like the sound of that, but she tried to keep her tone level. "About what?"

Sighing softly, Solas shook his head. "I promised not to say, but you should speak with him soon. I am worried he will wait too long."

They were nearly to Varric's favorite campfire at this point, and the dwarf stopped his pacing when he saw the two of them talking, brow furrowed with concern. "You're talking about Blondie, aren't you?" he asked.

Cassandra still didn't trust the storyteller, especially since he had begun warming to Anders again, but whatever was worrying Solas was clearly troubling him as well. "Do you know where he is?"

Varric frowned. "No. I've barely seen him all day."

She looked at Solas. "I wish you would just tell me what is going on."

"It's about Justice," Varric answered. Solas gave him a disapproving look, but the dwarf just shrugged. "Hey, he didn't make me promise to keep any secrets."

"Justice," she echoed. She recognized the name from Varric's book, but she still had only a vague understanding of how Anders' relationship with the spirit worked. Technically, sharing his body with a spirit made him an abomination, but he didn't behave like any possessed mage she had seen before. "What's wrong?"

Conflicted, Solas answered in a rush as if he wouldn't be betraying a confidence if he spoke quickly enough. "The spirit is changing—has been changing for quite some time. I don't know how much longer the Herald will be able to keep it contained. He almost lost control in Val Royeaux, and from what Blackwall just told me, he had another incident in Redcliff."

"I didn't notice anything..." she began, but then hesitated. Anders had been upset in Redcliff. She had attributed his reaction to shock, but considering his behavior in this context, she could see that it was rather odd. And if the spirit inside him was changing, that could only mean one thing. "I need to warn Cullen."

"No," Varric said firmly, actually reaching out to grasp her arm as she turned to leave. "I don't think that's necessary. Chuckles here has an idea how to fix it. We just have to convince Blondie."

Cassandra stared down at his hand until he finally released her arm, but she was really just buying herself time to think. Varric's alignment was difficult to guess on a good day, but she had no idea where his current loyalties stood regarding Anders. She could even understand his reluctance to involve Cullen at this stage and had to admit he might be right; Cullen's instincts would be to treat Anders like any other abomination, but they couldn't risk losing the mark on his hand or the symbolic role he played in the Inquisition. This would have to be handled carefully.

"I need to find him," she said finally. "Keep an eye out," she told Varric. "If you see him, keep him here until I return." Turning to Solas, she added, "Whatever this solution of yours is, get it ready."

But she didn't have much luck finding Anders. He wasn't in his cabin, the apothecary or any of the spots around the village she had seen him frequent. Running out of options, she decided to check the tavern, though she hadn't ever seen him there before. The tavern was raucous and warm, filled with the sound of music and cheerful voices. An involuntary smile touched her lips as the warmth washed over her, but she quickly wiped it away. This was not the place to let down her guard.

She saw their newest recruit chatting up the tavern owner, leaning rather promiscuously on the bar as she grinned at the woman on the other side, the pink tip of her tongue tracing over her top lip as she giggled. "I'm sure I could help you find another way to serve the Inquisition if you're really looking," she was saying and Cassandra rolled her eyes. The elf was lucky she was good with a bow.

Scanning the rest of the room, she saw no sign of Anders, but she did spot Leliana leaning against a wall in the corner, shadowed eyes watching everyone from beneath her hood.

"Have you seen him?" Cassandra asked when she was close enough to be heard over the noise.

"Who?"

"Trevelyan," she said, biting out the false name with frustration.

"You really should start referring to him as the Herald," Leliana pointed out. "Everyone else does. They will start to wonder why you do not."

Grinding her teeth together, Cassandra had to admit that she was right. "Have you seen the Herald, then?"

"Not recently. He was talking—or rather arguing—with Vivienne earlier. Perhaps she can help." She looked at Cassandra with a knowing smile. "You're still uneasy about this business with the mages and templars, aren't you? You're afraid of what he will do if we decide not to ally ourselves with the rebel mages."

Cassandra sighed, but decided to keep her conversation with Solas to herself until she knew more. "I just can't fathom what the Maker was thinking, putting someone like him in a position of such power."

"I suppose we shall find out soon enough."

In spite of her worry, a smile touched Cassandra's lips when the minstrel changed melodies and the first chords of Nightingale's Eyes rang out through the tavern. "They're playing your song," she teased.

"Time for me to check in with my agents, I think," Leliana replied, blushing as she slipped out the door.

Cassandra followed her outside and looked up at the chantry. She had avoided looking for Anders there because she knew how much he disliked the place, but she was running out of places to look and it was possible Vivienne could give her further direction. Stepping inside, she paused a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting, vision confused by the flickering candlelight dancing over the walls and rafters.

"You look positively ashen, my dear," Vivienne greeted. "Even more so than usual. Are you well?"

"I'm fine. Have you seen...the Herald?"

Lips twitching with a scowl before she managed to soothe the reaction away, Vivienne said, "Not lately, thankfully. Were you hoping to persuade him out of this madness with the rebel mages? If they're foolish enough to sell themselves into slavery in Tevinter, I say we should let them. Good riddance."

Smiling tightly, Cassandra asked, "You didn't happen to notice which way he went, did you?"

Vivienne waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, I don't know. Down to the cellar? A fine place for him, if you ask me."

To her surprise, Cassandra did find Anders in the basement, sitting at the back of a cell in the dungeon of all places. His eyes were closed but he was not asleep, a crease between his brows as he clenched his hands in front of him and murmured something under his breath. For a moment she thought he might be praying, but the glimpse of blue light emanating from the edges of his eyelids settled that question.

Her hand went immediately to the pommel of her sword. "Mage?" she inquired, uncertain what else to call him. She refused to call him Herald to his face, Trevelyan just seemed awkward and she didn't want to use his real name even though they were alone in the room.

His eyes snapped open and the blue light quickly faded. He was breathing hard as if he had just fought a battle—and perhaps he had. "Seeker," he greeted with false cheer. "What can I do for you?"

She shook her head in frustration. "How did I miss this?" she asked herself out loud. "You're coming apart at the seams and I haven't even noticed the signs."

Anger sparked to life in his eyes. "I'm not falling apart," he protested. "I have it under control."

"Is that why you're sitting in a cell where you could easily lock yourself up if that spirit took control?"

He flinched, but she didn't give him a chance to respond.

"You've been putting everyone around you at risk for weeks, and you've said nothing. You've even made others keep your secret!"

Swallowing hard, he looked away. "Solas told you."

"No. He asked if you had spoken to me yet and was disappointed to hear you have not. Varric was the one who told me. He was worried."

"About me? Or what I might become?"

"Probably both."

Nodding, Anders looked down at his knees, slumping against the wall behind him in defeat. Despite the emotion and strain wearing on his features, his pose was so vulnerable that it made him look like a lost little boy; to her shock, some motherly instinct she had not expected to find within herself made her itch to put her hand on his head and comfort him. "What are you going to do?" he asked tentatively as if he didn't want to know the answer.

"We're going to fix it." Letting her sword slide back into its scabbard, she waved at him impatiently. "Get up." When he didn't immediately comply, she grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, dragging him stumbling out of the cell. Judging by the look on his face, she knew he expected the worst—that he would be made tranquil, probably. She didn't know what kind of impact tranquility would have on the mark, so she'd rather not test it unless they had no other choice, but she was angry enough with him at the moment that she had no problem letting him think that was what she intended.

"I'm sorry," he said, so faintly that she barely heard it over the clatter of their boots on the damp stone floor. She wasn't sure if he had meant it for her, himself or the spirit in his head, but she wasn't ready to hear any apology regardless.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: To those of you who are concerned that I'm wrapping up the Justice plot too quickly, don't worry. There will be opportunities to explore some interaction with Cole once he comes into the story, and this isn't the last thing I have planned for Justice. I just couldn't justify keeping Anders in such a desperate state much longer when Solas already has a solution for the problem. Plus, I feel like the leaders of the Inquisition weren't going to be able to trust Anders as long as Justice was in his head, and by the time we get to Skyhold, they have to trust him enough to make him Inquisitor. Anyway, I'm curious what you think about where things are going. I'll try to get the next chapter posted soon.<br>**


	8. The Ritual

**Author's note: So I mostly made up the ritual thing, but I drew on several sources for it. I also apologize for Varric's ridiculous story. I think I was just inspired Iron Bull's bizarre characterization because up until Inquisition I had always thought of the Qunari as being pretty straight-laced and dour. I find it funny to think back to the first two games with what we now know about Qunari and question those assumptions.**

* * *

><p>Varric turned in a slow circle to inspect all the chalk markings Solas had scrawled on the floor. Several objects were placed at various places in the diagram, crystals, herbs and carved objects that looked Dalish in origin. "So, how does this work, exactly?"<p>

Looking up from the detailed portion of the design he was finishing, Solas arched a brow at him. "Do you really want to know?"

Varric laughed. "Probably not."

Anders sat at the center of one of the circles staring down at his lap. He hadn't said much since Varric arrived, following directions listlessly as Solas prepared for the ritual. Varric suspected his silent obedience had something to do with the Seeker standing in the corner of the room looking fierce. Or perhaps he was more troubled by the ex-Templar glowering from the opposite corner. Either way, he didn't have much choice in the matter.

"Chin up, Blondie," he said, patting him on the shoulder. "It'll all be over soon." Anders didn't look up or even acknowledge the comment, so Varric knew he was still angry with him for outing him to the Seeker. That was fine. Angry was better than insane.

"Are you sure it's necessary that the dwarf be involved?" the Seeker asked Solas while glaring at Varric.

Solas looked up, puzzled. "If you expect the Herald to come back in one piece, then yes. He needs an anchor to this world."

"Perhaps I could serve in that role?" she asked. "Or Cullen? We can keep him here."

Anders shuddered and Varric couldn't blame him, the threat behind her words wasn't very subtle.

"While I'm sure you would try," Solas conceded with a grimace, "His odds are far better if someone he knows well serves in this role."

"What do you need me to do, Chuckles?" Varric asked.

"Not much. Just stay within the circle and talk to him."

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "He's proficient enough at that."

"If things get desperate, physical contact can help. Keep his mind occupied while I work to free the spirit." He glanced at Anders. "I'm afraid it will be painful for you. The spirit will be tearing you apart, especially if he panics. I need you to remain calm. And whatever you do, stay awake. If your mind goes to the fade, I can't guarantee what will happen."

A strange expression crossed Anders' face. "I won't be able to say goodbye," he murmured.

"I'm afraid not. But I can relay your sentiment to him, if you wish."

Anders nodded, a resigned expression on his face.

"How will we know the ritual is complete?" Cullen asked. Though he was asking Solas the question, his eyes hadn't wavered from Anders. The steady vigilance of his stare was enough to give Varric shivers, and he wasn't even its subject. He was beginning to understand a little bit about why Anders complained about mages being constantly under the Templars' eye; it was difficult to ignore attention of such intensity.

"When the ritual is over, I will wake up," Solas said, putting the final touches on the ritual circle and standing back to admire his handiwork. Clasping his hands together, he looked around the room. "Are we ready to begin?" Looking pointedly at Cullen, he added, "Once we start this process, we must not be interrupted. Do you understand?"

Cullen stepped in front of the door to block it with his body. "What I understand is that I'm not going let an abomination walk out of this room. So you will either succeed in your task, or I'll finish it myself."

"Easy, Curly," Varric said with warning in his voice and stepped in front of Anders protectively. "You need him to walk out of here alive, remember?"

Cocking his head, Cullen pointed out, "Tranquil are still alive, aren't they?"

Sitting down between them, Varric tapped Anders' knee to get his attention. "Just remember: he has to get through me first." Anders actually cracked a smile at that, no doubt because the idea of Varric taking on a warrior like Cullen was hilarious at best, but Varric was just happy to see him responding.

Solas sat down in the circle that intersected theirs, stretching out on his back and closing his eyes. Folding his hands over his stomach he began taking slow, deliberate breaths, each one taking a bit longer than the last.

"Is it working?" Cassandra asked with impatience when Solas had gone silent and still.

"I don't know," Anders replied. "I've never done this before, but you'd think—ah!" He convulsed, arms wrapped around his stomach as he doubled over, his forehead nearly touching the floor as he moaned in pain. Varric marveled at his flexibility for a moment before he remembered that it was his job to keep Anders distracted.

"Hey, Blondie," he said, putting a hand on Anders head to remind him that he was there. "Remember that time we went to the Wounded Coast and Bethany, well you know how innocent she was, she came across that little cache in the Tal Vashoth camp? You know the one. The gilded box with the tassels hanging from the sides. She opened it up looking for treasure, and then this puzzled look came over her face. It wasn't until Isabela took a peek that we figured out what it was all about. Poor Bethany blushed so hard I thought she would stay that color permanently. Who would have guessed Qunari were so kinky? I mean, I don't even know what half of the toys in that crate were used for, but the very thought gave me nightmares for a month."

Anders laughed, a weak rasping chuckle that was painful enough to hear that Varric wondered how much it hurt to make. "And there was that one," he said past occasional spasms, "the purple one. You remember? Isabela…"

Varric let loose a belly laugh. "She plucked it from the box without a word and tucked it Maker knows where. I heard her muttering under her breath as she did it. 'I was wondering where I left that!'"

"I think she...she was just messing with Bethany."

"I don't know. Rivaini held that grotesque thing like she knew how to use it. And she did have some dealings with qunari."

"Maybe Iron Bull...he might know what it was for."

"Ask if you want. I don't want any more nightmares. I have enough about red lyrium. Speaking of which, did you see…"

They went on like this for what felt like hours. Varric lost track of time, telling stories, reminiscing, while Anders got progressively weaker, falling on his side and curling into a fetal ball as he fought the waves of pain. Blue light crackled across his skin periodically, cracks that made Varric's heart stop until they vanished again, but Anders didn't seem to notice, too preoccupied with the pain to do more than cling to Varric's hand and try to stay awake. Varric shook him a few times when he started to drift away, and when his touch seemed to go unnoticed he took off his gloves and began tracing soothing patterns over Anders' scalp with his bare fingers.

They talked about Kirkwall and Hawke, their ragtag band of companions and the strange characters they came across in their travels. They avoided the pain points and the memories of regret or loss, focusing on the good times. Before long Varric was the only one talking, and for once in his life he found it difficult. It was hard to tell stories to someone who was in too much pain to hear them, but he hoped that the sound of his voice would be enough to keep Anders grounded. He looked up at one point to see the Seeker looking at him in wonder, listening to his story with rapt attention while occasionally looking down at Anders with a tight expression of either worry or curiosity. He couldn't tell which. He was just glad he had turned his back on Cullen because he didn't want to see if the man had drawn his blade.

Finally Anders went still, and Varric feared that he had fallen asleep despite his efforts, but then he shifted, rolling on his back and looking up at the ceiling. His expression was muddled, too many emotions crossing his face for Varric to catalogue any of them accurately.

"It is done," Solas said suddenly, sounding weary though he sat up and stretched as if arising from a pleasant nap. "Your friend is safe," he added, smiling at Anders.

Anders pushed himself up on his elbows to look at him, sadness in his eyes. "Thank you."

"Then the spirit is gone?" Cullen demanded, his lack of compassion jarring.

Solas nodded. "Yes. He is home."

Anders frowned, gaze unfocused. Varric had to strain to hear his words as he murmured, "And I'm alone."


	9. Nug Wrangling 101

**Author's note: Prepare yourself for extreme fluffiness. I think it was the letter on Leliana's desk about Schmooples II that inspired this little scene originally, but the more I thought about it the more I realized how interesting it would be to see these two interact. They have some interesting parallels that I'd never noticed before.**

* * *

><p>The silence was deafening. Even when Justice had been quiet, his presence had always been tangible like a voice overheard from another room, a steady background hum to remind him that he wasn't alone. Now there was nothing, and Anders felt hollow, all the spaces inside that had been taken up by Justice empty and aching to be filled. He felt a bit like he had lost a limb, and not only was he dealing with the phantom pains of the loss, he was having to relearn how to do everything without it. He couldn't calm his mind enough to be able to sleep, but even if he could have slept, he worried that his current state would make him a prime target for demons.<p>

So he sat in his little cabin and stared at the fire, losing himself in the patterns of light and shadow. He could have used a good night's sleep to prepare for more arguments over which faction to support, but it probably didn't matter much considering how little weight his opinion actually carried. Deciding to give up on the hope of sleep entirely, he walked over to the basin near his bed and poured out a little water to wash his face. The water felt icy against his skin, but he couldn't tell if it really was that cold or he was just feverish. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the dark window when he looked up, haggard and unshaven, bruises of exhaustion gathering under his eyes, he realized he was in for a long day.

And it was nearly dawn already. Doing what he could to clean himself up, he put on his coat and stepped outside, shivering as he looked at the steadily brightening sky and decided to get a better view of the sunrise. The village was quiet, only the night guards shuffling about anxious for their watch to end, but compared to the silence in his head, even the rustle of breeze through grasses and occasional stamp of boots on stone was welcome noise.

The wind plucked at him with icy fingers as he began walking beyond Haven's gate, but he welcomed the discomfort since it helped him remember he was still alive. The snow crunched pleasantly under his boots as he climbed a slope to get a better view of the horizon, nugs and other rodents scurrying through the underbrush as he passed. He even heard a few birds chirping in the distance. Pink was spreading over the sky by the time he reached the top of the ridge, golden light flaring around the peaks in the distance.

Entranced by the beauty, he didn't notice he had company until he heard a woman clear her voice. Leliana perched on a rock nearby, a gentle smile on her face as she regarded him.

"Good morning, Herald," she greeted. "You're up early."

"Or late, depending on your point of view."

"Trouble sleeping?"

He nodded, brushing snow off another rock and sitting down beside her. "What are you doing up so early?"

"I always get up early. An old habit from my days as a lay sister. Greeting the dawn is such a peaceful way to start the day, don't you think?"

Anders smiled, watching the first rays of sunlight spill over the mountaintops. "It is beautiful."

They sat in silence for a while watching the sun rise, and Anders felt more at peace than he had since Justice returned to the fade.

"You must miss him."

Startled, he turned to look at her, uncertain of her meaning.

"The spirit," she explained, compassion filling her eyes. "It must be lonely without him."

He felt his throat constrict, amazed that anyone could be so understanding of the predicament he had inflicted upon himself.

"It is lonely," he said finally. "I hadn't expected to feel his absence so concretely. Or to feel so lost without him."

Nodding, she looked back at the sky, a wistful expression on her face. "You have lost your balance, and now you're questioning everything, who you are, who you were, who you want to be."

She was right. His identity had gotten all tangled up with Justice, and now he had no idea who he was without the spirit, how much of what he thought he was had actually been Justice and how much of his true self had been lost a long time ago, pieces of personality falling away over the years to make room for the spirit sharing his mind. Looking at her curiously, he observed, "You say that as if you've had personal experience with this sort of thing."

She smiled. "I've never shared my mind with a spirit, but I have experienced some dramatic upheavals in my life. Did you know that I was once a bard? I loved it—or thought I did—but betrayal brought that phase of my life to a bitter end. So I joined the chantry to make up for my sins. I thought the Maker had chosen me, that I could truly hear his voice in ways that others could only imagine. But no one believed me until I met the Warden. We fought the Blight together, but when it was over I lost my purpose. Eventually I became the left hand of the Divine and found myself again. Then Justinia died. In some ways, the only constant in my life has been change."

Anders suddenly felt incredibly selfish for wallowing in his own problems. "I'm sorry."

Blinking in surprise, she canted her head to the side. "For what?"

"I don't know...I've just been so wrapped up in myself that I hadn't noticed that other people are suffering too."

"I don't think that's true."

Anders' eyes widened in surprise. Leliana had been cold to him at the beginning, but now that he considered it, she had been rather supportive of him lately. "You don't?"

She shook her head solemnly. "No. I've been watching you, and I don't think you're capable of ignoring the suffering of others. They say that you were a healer back in Kirkwall before everything fell apart. I can see that kindness in you, in the way you care for those around you and the good you've been doing on the Inquisition's behalf. Tabris said you were always too generous with everyone else and not generous enough with your self. I'm inclined to agree."

Anders felt his heart flutter a bit at that. He had already known that Leliana traveled with the Warden during the Blight, but it had never occurred to him that they might still be in touch. Thinking about the old Warden Commander was painful. Tabris had given him a chance at a new life, a life beyond the Templars' grasp, and then he had gone and thrown it all away. He felt like such a disappointment.

"He also said that you were funny," she added, "that you reminded him of Alistair. But we don't get to see that side of you much. It makes me sad."

Anders was still stuck on the part where Tabris had compared him to the king of Ferelden, so he didn't reply.

A smile lit her features suddenly. "And he told me about your cat. What was his name? Pounce?"

"Ser Pounce-a-lot," Anders answered, throat tight.

"Yes!" Leliana clasped her hands together in delight, and suddenly she looked a decade or two younger. "He gave me a pet too, you know? Schmooples."

Her joy was contagious. Smiling, he asked, "A cat? Or a mabari?"

"A nug!"

Eyes wide, Anders took that in slowly. "A nug," he repeated.

"Yes. They're so cute! All pink and wrinkly." As if on cue, a trio of nugs hopped across the clearing in front of them. The last one stumbled a bit, dragging one of its legs and leaving a red streak in the snow. "Oh no! Look! One of them is hurt."

Anders stared at her in wonder. Here she was, an assassin and spy, worrying over a wounded animal. "I might be able to heal that leg if we could catch it," he offered.

The childlike gratitude on her features warmed him enough that he no longer felt the cold bite of the wind. Pressing a finger to her lips for silence, she directed him down one side of the path while she took the other. Moving slowly and carefully, they stalked the nugs through the trees, the sun rising overhead as they worked. Eventually they managed to corral the creatures into a hollow between a few rocks. The healthy ones were able to scamper off through a small opening, but the wounded nug got caught in the brambles. With reflexes too quick to follow, Leliana caught the nug in her arms and turned it to give Anders access to its wounded leg.

"There, there," she said soothingly, seemingly oblivious to the creature's claws scratching at her arms.

Kneeling down beside her, Anders calmed the panicked creature with a touch and a small sleeping spell, then went to work on the injury. It was not deep, but with all the predators in the area, it would have been enough to make the nug an easy target. "That should do it," he said when he was done, sitting back on his heels.

Looking down at the drowsy nug in her arms, she asked, "What do you think I should do? Should I keep him?"

Anders shrugged. "The Inquisition might not be the best place for pets, but I've carried a cat into the Deep Roads, so who am I to judge?"

Smiling, she stroked the nug lightly and then gently placed him on the ground. "No. Better that he go free. At least we improved his chances a little." She turned to look at him, the expression on her face too complex to read, but something about the intensity of her regard made him blush. "Thank you, Herald."

He grimaced. "Please don't call me that. Not when there's no one else around."

"What shall I call you, then? Not Trevelyan, surely. Anders?" A secretive smile crossed her lips. "We both know that's not your real name."

That caught him off guard, but he didn't know why he was surprised; she was nothing if not well-informed. "Apparently we do. But Anders will do fine. That's been my name long enough for it to be all but true at this point."

She nodded. "Then, thank you, Anders. You deserve more credit than you allow yourself."

Suddenly Anders felt lighter, the emptiness inside him a little less painful than it had been before. "You are too kind," he said softly.

"Then perhaps it takes one to know one." Grinning, she turned back toward Haven. "We should get back. They'll be looking for us soon."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> **Hope you liked it. Also, I know there are no healing spells in Inquisition, but healing is a pretty essential part of Anders' character, so I'm ignoring this gameplay fact in favor of a more complete story.**


	10. The Darkest Timeline

**Author's Note:** **Here's my first attempt at Dorian's point of view. I enjoyed writing it, but it wore me out remembering to call Anders "Trevelyan" since Dorian doesn't know who he really is. It was kind of fun to have write from the viewpoint from someone who is still very much an outsider, though. And this particular mission is one of my favorites of the game. **

**Also, random fact, "Community" fans might recognize the title of this chapter as a reference to that show. **

* * *

><p>Dorian had always considered himself to be rather resilient—and even when his resilience was lacking, he was at least good at faking it until he made it. Such skills were a requirement in the Magisterium, and he had learned at a young age that it was far worse to let an honest reaction slip than it was to cover your feelings with a generous layer of indifference. In this way, Tevinter and Orlais were more alike than they were different, the only critical distinction being that Orlais relied on physical masks as a crutch to help obscure the truth. The Herald wasn't from Tevinter or Orlais—Dorian wasn't even convinced he was from the Free Marches—but wherever the man's true origin, he had clearly never been forced to learn this lesson.<p>

Trevelyan's emotions were raw, hidden by only the flimsiest of shields, and his vulnerabilities were painfully obvious. These were unfortunate traits for someone at the center of a movement like the Inquisition, and perhaps that was why the others walked all over him. In fact, the trait that seemed to be most trained into him was passivity, though he occasionally showed flashes of fire that suggested he had not always been this way.

Dorian hadn't overheard much of the debate going on in the war room before he barged through the door to offer his services, but he heard enough to know that the Herald's opinions were not highly valued, especially by the man in charge of the Inquisition's army. Detecting group dynamics was another thing that Dorian was well trained to do, and he could see from a glance that the power in the organization did not sit with Trevelyan, despite the fact that popular opinion treated him like a divine messenger. While Trevelyan tried to convince the others to go to Redcliff, the Commander seemed to think pursuing the mages was a waste of time and the Seeker was clearly more interested in ousting Alexius from the castle than in seeking help from the mages.

But then the Spymaster offered a solution that everyone could live with—the only consequence of which would be the risk to the Herald's life. If the mark on his hand hadn't made him so essential, Dorian suspected even that wouldn't have been of much consequence to the Commander, but some of the others seemed more concerned. Trevelyan himself disregarded the risk and made the final decision, but his lack of consideration for his own safety only compounded Dorian's concerns. Trevelyan behaved like a man who had outlived a death sentence and was only biding time until fate finally caught up with him.

Even so, things in Redcliff had started out extraordinarily well. They had taken control of the situation fairly handily until Alexius pulled out that amulet and decided to make a demonstration of his time magic. That was when things started to go extraordinarily poorly, but at least there was symmetry. Relying on years of practice at controlling his reactions, Dorian took this setback entirely in stride, but Trevelyan was not handling the shock quite as well.

"We actually went through time," Trevelyan said, as if repeating the words could help him understand the concept. "That is...insane." He looked so adorable with that little crease between his brows, his hair all mussed from their journey and flying off in a dozen directions; Dorian itched to put it in order with a lick and a few brushes of his fingers like a cat grooming a kitten, but he thought better of the impulse.

"What's insane is what this might do to the fabric of the world," he said. "We didn't travel through time so much as punch a hole through it and toss it into the privy. But don't worry. I'm here. I'll protect you." His hand had landed on Trevelyan's shoulder while he was talking, though he couldn't recall deciding to put it there. That was worrying; Trevelyan had definitely triggered something inside of him, a protective instinct he had thought he'd brought to heel long ago.

Glancing down at his hand, a hint of a smile crossed Trevelyan's lips before he managed to maneuver away from the touch with unexpected poise. Surprised, Dorian studied the expression on Trevelyan's face more closely. Was it possible that he'd misjudged the man? Was the appearance of vulnerability simply a form of armor intended to make people underestimate him? "This might be my first trip through time," Trevelyan said rather bluntly, "but it's not my first bout with insanity. Your vow of protection comes with a plan to get us back to our own time, I hope?"

Dorian shrugged. "I have some thoughts about it, yes. They're lovely thoughts, like little jewels."

"Let's hope they're valuable ones."

Dorian tried not to bristle at the sarcasm in the man's voice. "We should start by taking a look around. If we know where we are, we'll have a better chance of finding our way back."

Trevelyan nodded, but a frown crossed his face as he tried the door and discovered that it was locked. "Do you think any of the others could have been drawn through the rift?"

"I doubt it was large enough to bring the whole room through," Dorian replied, helping Trevelyan search the guards for a key. "Alexius wouldn't risk catching himself or Felix in it. They're probably where and when we left them. In some sense anyway. Aha." Pulling the key from the guard's pocket, he lifted it up to show Trevelyan.

Trevelyan nodded in the direction of the door and asked, "What do you think Alexius was trying to do?"

Dorian obeyed the silent order with a little smile and led the way out into the ruined hall. "I believe his original plan was to remove you from time completely. If that had happened, you would never have been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes or mangled this Elder One's plan." He paused when he saw that Trevelyan wasn't following, still standing in the doorway with a strange expression on his features.

"Remove me from time... Do you think such a thing is really possible?"

Considering the question uneasily, Dorian wondered at Trevelyan's reason for asking. "I wouldn't have mentioned it if I hadn't thought it was possible."

Trevelyan sighed as if he were disappointed that Alexius had failed, and Dorian shook his head, feeling an intense dislike for this fatalistic streak he kept seeing in the Herald. "I think your surprise in the castle hall made Alexius reckless," he continued as if he hadn't been interrupted and Trevelyan finally joined him in the hallway. "He tossed us into the rift before he was ready. I countered it, the magic went wild and here we are. Make sense?"

"As much as any of this does."

They began exploring the dungeons, occasionally doubling back when a collapsed hallway or an overgrown red crystal cropped up to block their way. The environment was nightmarish, but perhaps it was the bizarre nature of their surroundings that helped Dorian to forget the gravity of their situation. Everything felt too dreamlike to be real, like a little trip through the Fade instead of a journey to another time. But perhaps that said something. Since when had being in the Fade become a comforting thought?

"Don't touch it," Trevelyan cautioned sharply when Dorian reached out to steady himself against the red stone growing out of the nearest wall. The vibrating red light cast a weird glow on his features, making the angles harsher, the lines and scars more vivid.

Turning to study the stone, Dorian asked, "What is it?"

"Red lyrium. Have you ever heard about the Knight Commander in Kirkwall?"

"Kirkwall? I recall something about their chantry, but nothing in particular about their templars."

A humorless laugh rasped from Trevelyan's lips and he started walking again. "Of course that's the part that sticks."

"Well? Aren't you going to explain?"

"Suffice to say that red lyrium can drive a person mad."

Entering another chamber, they heard a voice humming eerily. It was one of the mages singing a chantry hymn with no apparent awareness of his surroundings. Trevelyan's expression was pained as he looked at the elf, eyes filled with compassion, but Dorian waved him onward. They couldn't afford to help every poor soul they found, and from all indications this mage was already beyond help.

They found the Grand Enchanter in a cell overtaken with red lyrium, the crystals literally growing around her body, and this time the sight even gave Dorian pause.

"You are alive!" she cried. "How? I saw you disappear into the rift."

Dorian explained their situation and she took it rather well. Then again, she was being eaten alive by a glowing crystal, so she might just be used to crazy at this point.

"Are you alright?" Trevelyan asked as if the answer weren't obvious, leaning against the bars of the cell to get a closer look at the woman.

"Please," she begged, "stop this from happening. Alexius serves the Elder One. More powerful than the maker. No one challenges him and lives."

Trevelyan's hands clenched on one of the bars. "That magister's going to regret he didn't just kill me."

Interrupting to ask the current date, Dorian grimaced when he heard the answer. "A whole year." Catching Trevelyan's gaze, he said, "Our only hope is to find the amulet that Alexius used to send us here. If it still exists, I can use it to reopen the rift at the exact spot we left. Maybe."

"Good," Fiona said.

"I said, maybe. It might also turn us into paste."

"You must try. Your spymaster Leliana is here. You must find her, quickly, before the Elder One learns you're here."

Dorian had to practically drag Trevelyan away from the cell, but he shook off Dorian's touch as soon as they reached the hallway again. "Who do you think this Elder One is?" he asked.

"The leader of the Venatori, I suspect. Some magister aspiring to godhood. It's the same old tune. Let's play with magic we don't understand. It will make us incredibly powerful. Evidently it doesn't matter if you rip apart the fabric of time in the process."

Trevelyan nodded, not even responding to the humor in Dorian's tone. "We need to find Leliana."

The next person they found was not the Spymaster, but the Seeker. She was reciting some verse from the chant, but it wasn't the religious mantra that set Dorian's teeth on edge. Cassandra may not have been visibly consumed by the red lyrium, but it had infected her just the same; her eyes glowed and a flicker of red light hovered around her like a ghostly aura.

"You've returned to us!" she cried. "Can it be? Has Andraste given us another chance? The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life."

"I'm not back from the dead," Trevelyan replied. "I just got...well, this is hard to explain." He glanced at Dorian for assistance.

"Alexius sent us forward in time. If we find him, we may be able to return to the present."

Hope filled Cassandra's eyes as she looked up at them. "Go back in time? Then can you make it so none of this ever took place?"

Trevelyan nodded firmly. "That's the plan, yes."

Cassandra sighed in relief, avoiding Trevelyan's touch when he reached out to help her to her feet. Dorian thought that was wise after how Trevelyan had cautioned him about the red lyrium, but the action had seemed instinctive, the gesture of a man who was used to helping. As she limped out of the cell, Cassandra told them of the things that had happened while they were gone, the Elder One's appearance, the fall of the Orlesian empire after the empress' assassination, the demon army steadily taking over the world. Dorian refused to even consider these events as truth, certain that they could change all of them given the chance. Trevelyan looked less certain, but no less determined; Dorian was learning there was a layer of steel beneath the man's fragile facade.

They found the dwarf in a cell nearby. "Blondie!" he cried. "You're like a bad copper. How did you escape this time?"

Trevelyan smiled, though the expression was strained. "We didn't escape exactly. We just took a little detour through time. We have a plan to go back and fix all this."

"Everything that happens to you is weird."

Worry filling his eyes, Trevelyan observed, "You don't look so good, Varric. What happened?"

"The not dying version of this red lyrium stuff? Way worse. Just saying."

"Maybe I can…" Trevelyan reached out to touch Varric but the dwarf pulled out of reach and shook his head.

"No. It's too late, Blondie. Just go back to fix this and it'll be alright." He glanced over at Cassandra and laughed. "And hey, the gang's all back together. What could go wrong now?"

Dorian liked his attitude. But the air of positivity wilted quickly when they got closer to the Spymaster's cell, the echo of voices ringing down the damp hallways raised in anger and defiance and periodically punctuated by the sound of torture. Trevelyan flinched at Leliana's cries as if they hurt him physically, and Dorian could tell he felt responsible for the horrors that had occurred in his absence. Despite Cassandra's plea for caution, Trevelyan burst into the room directly, only hesitating when he got a good look at Leliana. Dorian couldn't blame him. Though she appeared to be free of red lyrium's influence, the Spymaster was in worse shape than the other two. She had been tortured to within an inch of her life, and yet she took advantage of the distraction of their appearance to kill her torturer with nothing but her legs. Impressive, yet terrifying.

"You're alive," she said, looking at Trevelyan in wonder as he detached her from the chains.

"You're safe now," he said gently, rubbing at her wrists to restore circulation.

Her expression darkened at his words and she pulled her hands away. "Forget safe. If you came back from the dead, you need to do better than safe. You need to end this." She looked around at the rest of them as if daring them to pity her. "Do you have weapons? The magister's probably in his chambers."

Shocked by her abruptness, Dorian decided that he had absolutely nothing on her where resilience was concerned; he would have been blubbering like a baby if he'd been through the nightmare she had clearly endured. "You…" he began, shaking his head. "You aren't curious how we got here?"

Leliana glared at him, gathering up a bow and quiver of arrows. "No."

He tried to explain what had happened despite her disinterest, trying to make her realize that they could fix this. They could prevent all the suffering she had experienced.

"Enough," she snapped. "This is all pretend to you. Some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was real."

Shocked, Dorian started talking again before he had the sense to stop himself, his need to understand overriding his sense of self-preservation. "What happened while we were away?"

"Stop talking."

The look in her eyes gave him shivers, but he just couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut. "I'm just asking for information."

"No, you're talking to fill silence. Nothing happened that you want to hear."

They talked very little after that, focusing on the goal of finding Alexius and escaping this nightmare before it was too late to put things right. They had to fight their way through the crumbling castle, every corner revealing wandering demons or crazed cultists. Dorian wasn't accustomed to using this much battle magic. Fighting was more sport than necessity back home, but the others fought with a brutal efficiency that put his skills to shame. Even Trevelyan was a force to be reckoned with in battle, elemental magic flying from his staff with the ease of experience—more experience than any tower mage from a quiet corner of the Free Marches should have had cause to gain. Yet his true strength was in healing, an area of arcane knowledge that Dorian had never found particularly interesting. Trevelyan kept the rest of them on their feet with an endless chain of spells that lasted far longer than the healing potions that kept running dry.

But the effort was costing him. Dorian could see the strain in the way he leaned on his staff as he walked, the tremble in his fingers as he pushed through a door. The others had endured such horrors over the last year that they didn't seem to notice how Trevelyan was struggling, so it was up to Dorian to call for a break on the Herald's behalf.

"We should rest a bit and recover our strength," he said. "We're almost through that sealed door, and you know Alexius will be ready for a fight once we get in there."

"We don't have time for this," Leliana protested, anger flaring in her eyes as she paced back and forth.

"No. He's right," Cassandra said. "We should take a moment to catch our breath."

"I was going to say something myself," Varric admitted. "My legs are shorter than everyone else's, you know?"

Trevelyan chuckled and leaned back against a nearby table. Dorian was relieved to hear the sound, grateful that the dwarf could still reach him despite the cloud of melancholy hanging around his shoulders.

Sitting down next to him, Dorian pressed a lyrium potion into his hand. When Trevelyan looked up at him quizzically, he explained, "You need it more than I do."

Popping the cork, Trevelyan sipped at the potion in relief.

"Where did you learn to be such an efficient healer?" Dorian asked. "Restoration magic isn't terribly popular back in Tevinter."

A sad smile crossed Trevelyan's face, the expression so achingly fleeting that Dorian found himself staring at the man's lips in hope that it might return. "I've had a lot of practice."

"A lot of people with bumps and bruises back in Ostwick, I take it? Or are you simply referring to your time with the Inquisition? If so, you must be a quick learner."

Trevelyan turned to look at him, a distance in his gaze that made Dorian uneasy. He was also fairly certain he had been caught staring at the man's lips. "I know what you're doing," the Herald said softly, so softly that no one else in the room was likely to hear his words. "I used to be rather good at it myself. But you should save all that charm for someone who can't see through it." Pushing away from the table, he added with another smile, "Thanks for the lyrium."

Dorian watched him walk away and sat for a moment in startled amazement. It wasn't often that someone shut him down so thoroughly, but despite the reaction Trevelyan was likely intending to cause, Dorian only felt more intrigued than he had before. The man was an enigma, and Dorian had always had a powerful weakness for mysteries.

"We need to get moving," Leliana said impatiently, but Trevelyan was already leading the way out the door.

"Let's go," he said, and the rest of them followed.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>**** I feel kind of evil for putting that fluffy Leliana chapter right before this one because it makes it even sadder to see what happened to her in that dark future...** What did you think about Dorian's PoV? I still haven't completely decided on a pairing yet, though it's pretty clear from this chapter what Dorian would choose. ;)  
><strong>


	11. Welcome to the Inquisition

**Author's Note:** **A little shorter chapter this time, but it picks up pretty close to where the last one left off.**

* * *

><p>The rift brought them back to the exact moment they had left, but as Anders turned to look at his companions he felt the weight of that almost future and knew he would never be able to forget it. A glance at Cassandra made him remember the hopelessness in her eyes, the weariness in her posture that he knew she wouldn't normally allow herself. Looking at Leliana, he saw the haunted expression on her tortured face as the demons took her at the end. She looked back at him curiously now and he looked away, unable to reconcile the two versions of her in his head.<p>

Shivering, he turned his attention to Alexius just in time to see him fall to his knees. "You won," the magister said in defeat. There is no point extending this charade." Looking up at his son, his face twisted with anguish. "Felix."

"It's going to be all right, father."

"You'll die!"

"Everyone dies."

The Inquisition soldiers took Alexius away and Anders watched with a frown. He almost felt sorry for him. He knew what it was like to doom others on behalf of a cause, to do evil with the hope that the ends would someday justify the means. His own choice may not have gone as wrong as the one Alexius had made, but that didn't mean it hadn't caused more ripples of consequences than he could ever have anticipated. Though he hated everything Alexius represented, he couldn't judge the man without also judging himself.

"Blondie." Varric's hand was warm against his back. "You all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I've seen several, actually." His voice was thick with emotion, but he cleared it, giving the dwarf the lightest smile he could muster. "But I'm fine." His gaze skittered away as soon as it met Varric's; he couldn't look the dwarf in the eye without seeing that other him, the one who had been eaten alive by the very substance he feared most.

"Yeah. You look like you're lying." Varric patted him a couple of times before letting his hand drop to his side.

"I will be fine...eventually.'"

"That's better."

Cassandra joined them, looking Anders over, her gaze snagging on the obvious signs of battle on his clothing. "Where did you go? You only disappeared for an instant, but I get the sense that you were gone for much longer."

"And I have these weird memories," Varric agreed. "Things I know didn't happen but half remember. They're fading now."

"Good. Let them fade." Anders said firmly. "They never should have happened."

"But where did you go?" Cassandra insisted.

Dorian stepped in to explain. "To the future and back. Dismal though it was, it was preferable to going the other direction. Much less chance of accidentally preventing your own birth."

"I don't know," Anders muttered. "I can think of a few things I might change about the past."

Their conversation was interrupted by the rhythmic steps of soldiers marching into the throne room. Their armor was branded with Ferelden heraldry, and Anders retreated a few steps as soon as he saw the blond man walking in the room with his scowl focused on Fiona.

"Grand Enchanter, imagine how surprised I was to learn that you'd given Redcliff Castle away to a Tevinter magister."

"King Alistair," Fiona nearly whimpered in response.

"Especially since I'm fairly sure Redcliff belongs to Arl Teagan." Anders winced at that. He knew that the king had grown up in Redcliff and that the village's current arl was his uncle. The mages had put themselves in a difficult position by crossing him.

"Your majesty, we never intended…"

"I know what you intended. I wanted to help you, but you've made it impossible. You and your followers are no longer welcome in Ferelden."

"But we have hundreds who need protection. Where will we go?"

Anders knew he should keep his mouth shut—he could feel Cassandra's eyes burning a hole into the side of his head—but he couldn't stand there silently and watch the opportunity go by. "Well, we did come here for mages to close the breach," he pointed out, and he heard Cassandra sigh.

Fiona looked at him warily. "And what are the terms of this arrangement?" He wished she had been smart enough to ask that question of Alexius before signing away the mages' freedom in the first place.

"Hopefully better than what Alexius gave you," Dorian spoke up. "The Inquisition is better than that, yes?"

Evidently resigned to the situation, Cassandra said, "I suggest conscripting them. They've proven what they'll do given too much freedom."

Cassandra had a point, but Anders couldn't go halfway, not when he finally had a chance to offer the mages the freedom he had been fighting to give them for so long. "We would be honored to have you fight as allies at the Inquisition's side." He thought he heard Varric stifling a laugh behind him, and the intensity of Cassandra's glare hit him like the heat of a fireball.

"We'll discuss this later," she promised through gritted teeth.

Fiona didn't miss Cassandra's displeasure, but she seemed surprised by Anders' offer. "I'll pray that the rest of the Inquisition honors your promise, then."

"The breach threatens all of Thedas," he said, raising his voice and looking around the room, even enduring Cassandra's wrath for a moment before moving on. "We cannot afford to be divided now. We can't fight it without you. Any chance of success requires your full support."

King Alistair was still angry, but he was looking at Anders with a strange expression, one of curiosity and...something else. Anders hoped it wasn't recognition. Looking back at Fiona, the king advised, "I'd take that offer if I were you. One way or another, you're leaving my kingdom."

Fiona accepted, of course, but Anders was too stunned at what he had just accomplished to notice what she said. How long had he been dreaming of this day? Since he was a child freshly arrived at the circle tower, his mother's pillow tucked to his chest, tears drying on his cheeks. He didn't know if he would have the power to make this freedom last for the mages, but it was more than he'd ever been able to do before.

"You did it, Blondie," Varric said softly, patting him on the back again. "Now let's just hope you can survive it."

King Alistair approached Anders, squinting at him thoughtfully. "You're…"

"The Herald. Trevelyan," Anders answered quickly, but he could see that the king wasn't buying the lie. "I'm definitely not the runaway mage you helped to get conscripted into the Wardens," he added more softly, willing the king to understand. "Or the mage you met in Kirkwall who was tagging along with the Champion."

"Confusing," the king said finally. "You're confusing."

"Yes, I've been told that before."

Nodding at Fiona, Alistair said, "I hope you have better luck with them than I did. But you probably will, won't you? You understand them."

"I do."

Nodding, the king turned away and Anders breathed a sigh of relief, but the moment of peace ended quickly. Cassandra grabbed his arm and said, "Let's go. We need to get back to Haven and deal with this."

"Might I tag along?" Dorian asked, falling into step beside them. "I would like to see this breach up close, if you don't mind?"

Cassandra scowled, but Anders considered the request silently. Though he hadn't known him long, he felt like he understood Dorian pretty well already. He recognized more than a little of himself—or at least the man he'd once been—in the Tevinter mage, so he knew that all that charm and bluster was probably only a shield to keep everyone around him at arm's length. Dorian seemed to be a decent man, an outcast from his people who wanted to do the right thing, and Anders could respect that. But Dorian was also flirtatious and bold, and forward enough that his intentions were fairly obvious. Anders didn't want to encourage him, not when he was still so conflicted, and not when he was still unsure if he'd ever be ready to take that kind of leap again.

"I must admit I'm surprised," he said finally.

Dorian's expression turned serious. "We both saw what could happen, what this Elder One and his cult are trying to do. Not everything from Tevinter is terrible. Some of us have fought for eons against this sort of madness. It's my duty to stand with you. That future will not come to pass."

Anders glanced at Cassandra who merely sighed in resignation. "Then welcome to the Inquisition."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: I moved Dorian's request to sign up to this spot because I think it honestly makes more sense here. When I was reviewing this mission in the game I thought it was really weird that Dorian doesn't say, "Hey, can I stick around?" until they're having their little debrief back at Haven. It's not like Redcliff and Haven are right next door or they have a portal from one to the other that lets them travel in an instant. He would have had to tag along with them all the way back to Haven, and then it's supposed to be a shock that he wants to hang around? I understand why they did it from a story flow perspective in the game, but it doesn't actually make sense. Anyway, it's weird the things you notice when you're watching a gameplay video at a snail's pace to capture all the dialog accurately. ;)<strong>


	12. Envy Headache

**Author's note: And now a Cullen PoV chapter! I realize that in the game Cullen's lyrium withdrawal doesn't get revealed until they get to Skyhold, but in conversations they say that he stopped taking lyrium when he joined the Inquisition. I find it hard to believe that he wasn't already dealing with symptoms from the beginning, so I felt that I needed to address them when writing from his point of view. And he's kind of having a bad day, so I imagine that would only magnify everything.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Cullen was so angry he couldn't see straight. It didn't help that he hadn't slept well for days, plagued by nightmares recalling the tortures he had endured when the tower fell in Ferelden. He had managed to suppress those memories for years, but a few weeks without lyrium and they were all coming back to him in vivid detail.<p>

After what happened in Kirkwall, he'd wanted to make a clean break with the Templars, and severing his reliance on lyrium was a critical step in that process. But overcoming his addiction wasn't easy—or safe. Many had died trying, and judging by how awful the symptoms were at even this early stage, he wondered if he would have the strength to endure it himself. The symptoms ebbed and flowed, but today they were worse than usual, his head throbbing with every heartbeat, his skin simultaneously too hot and chilled. He had told Cassandra about his decision in the beginning and she had supported it, but he worried about it constantly, what the consequences would be if he lost focus at a critical moment.

He would have felt more comfortable with his decision if Anders didn't keep giving him reasons to start taking lyrium again. It was hard enough keeping an eye on the mages who had already joined the Inquisition, but now he had to watch the entirety of the mage rebellion without any real authority over them—all because the Herald had verbally given them their freedom with the bloody king of Ferelden present as witness. He slammed a palm down on the map, welcoming the sting of pain as he landed on one of the markers; at least that pain was immediate, not like the ephemeral agony of his withdrawal.

And then there was Anders himself. The mage was trouble enough without being possessed, but Solas' little ritual had only increased Cullen's worry, reminding him painfully of the many harrowings he had witnessed over his years as a Templar. A mage's mind was vulnerable to so many evils, and Anders had been harboring a spirit long enough to be accustomed to the sensation, long enough to perhaps miss the warning signs of a demon taking hold of his mind before it was too late. Cullen hadn't trusted him before, but he trusted him even less now.

Anders. The man who had caused so much pain and suffering across Thedas with a single act. The renegade mage who held the record for most escape attempts from any tower, who had in fact chosen to escape Ferelden's tower at the perfect moment to avoid the worst experience of Cullen's life. Cullen couldn't bring himself to forgive Anders for many things, but the mage's uncanny ability to dodge the consequences of his actions was at the top of the list. And he'd done it again. He had found himself a position of power within the Inquisition and used it to further his own agenda with no regard to the repercussions. And now Cullen was the one who had to deal with the aftermath.

"Cullen?" He looked up to see Josephine standing in the doorway, looking at him with uncertainty in her eyes.

"What is it?" he snapped.

"More mages have arrived. We need to arrange accommodations for them."

"Isn't that your job?"

Eyebrows lifting, she replied, "Yes, but I need to move some of the soldiers in order to make everyone fit. I wanted to check with you first."

He straightened and a spike of pain shot up his neck. "Just do what you have to do."

Tilting her head in concern, she approached the table. "Are you ill?"

"I'm fine. But I'd be better if we hadn't let the Herald make such a foolish decision.

"The situation is...unfortunate," she agreed. "But we're just going to have to make the best of it."

Scoffing, he shook his head, regretting the motion when the movement made the room spin lazily around him. "I just can't understand why Cassandra didn't intervene. She was there! She could have stopped him."

Josephine sighed. "I don't think she had much choice. Anders has made no secret of his loyalties or his intentions, and the mages are too stubborn to come along willingly without concessions being made. In the end, perhaps this decision was the correct one. We will get more out of the mages as allies than as prisoners."

"The veil is torn open!" he insisted. "There will be abominations among the mages, and without any oversight—"

"They are still a part of the Inquisition," she reminded, "and you command its army. If they step out of line you have the authority to correct them."

"I only wish that were enough." Scowling he turned and began to pace. "It's going to take time to organize our troops and the mage recruits for the march on the summit. But the more time we give them, the more chance of possession. We could lose lives before we have a chance to even attempt closing the breach."

"We are doing the best we can."

Stopping in his circuit across the floor, he jabbed a finger at her. "It's not enough!"

A frown creased Josephine's brows. "This isn't like you, Cullen. What's going on?"

"What's going on is that we have an arrogant, entitled mage running this Inquisition."

"He's not in charge."

Cullen threw up his hands. "He might as well be."

Eyes narrowing, she observed, "This is personal, isn't it?"

"What?"

"This...whatever it is with the Herald. It's personal for you."

Swallowing his anger, he took a deep breath and placed his hands on the table, staring down at the map of Ferelden and the little circle that marked the tower on Lake Calenhad. "I've known him a long time, longer than anyone else here. Back in Ferelden's tower, he was constantly fighting us, constantly causing trouble for his fellow mages. He would get them stirred up about all the injustice and then leave them behind the moment he found a way to slip out the door."

Josephine leaned against the opposite side of the table, the candle on her writing board flickering fitfully. "That was a long time ago. I suspect he's changed a bit since then."

"Changed? He wouldn't still be here now if he wasn't getting his way all the time. He can't stand to be constrained in any way even when it's for his own protection, and he can't be trusted."

"I'm afraid I must disagree." They both startled at the sound of the new voice. Leliana stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room and Cullen wondered how long she had been standing there listening. "I had nothing but doubts about him in the beginning. After what he did in Kirkwall, I thought the best we could possibly manage was to control him and prevent another disaster, but his actions over the last few weeks have changed my mind. He has a good heart. His biggest failing is that he listens to it too often, even when it is leading him astray."

Cullen shook his head at her in amazement. "So he's charmed you now too, has he? He's good at that."

"Cullen," she said sharply. "You forget who I am and what I do. I am not so easily deceived."

"If I didn't know better," Josephine mused with an odd expression on her face as she looked at Cullen, "I might think this thing between you and the Herald was...jealousy." Pity. That was what he saw glittering in her eyes.

Anger flared inside Cullen and he was tempted to upend the maps just for the momentary satisfaction of watching all the little markers fly around the room. He restrained himself with clenched fists and took a step away from the table. Voice dangerously soft, he said, "He has nothing that could ever make me jealous."

The two women exchanged a knowing glance and he made a noise of frustration.

"I need some air," he snapped and stalked out of the room. The anger had only made his headache worse, and the sunlight stabbed at his eyes like daggers when he stepped outside, bright despite the sickly green storm still brewing on the horizon. Wincing, he found a pool of shadow to stand in and leaned back against the stone wall, concentrating on keeping his skull from falling to pieces.

"Something wrong, Commander?" a deep voice asked in a rumble that only made Cullen's headache worse. The qunari. That was all he needed. "You look all tense."

"I'm fine," he grunted in response.

"Well, if you need someone to help you loosen up, you know where to find me."

Cringing, Cullen held his breath until he heard Iron Bull walk away. He needed to find a less public place to wallow in his misery. Squinting into the sunlight, he started walking, following the path outside Haven and into the wilderness until he found a shady spot beneath a tree. He didn't go far, just enough to be out of sight of anyone who might be wandering through the village. Rubbing at his temples, he leaned back against the tree and tried to regain his mental balance.

Feeling persecuted, he wondered how he could salvage things without looking like a complete fool. He wasn't jealous of Anders. He couldn't be. The mage was reckless, undisciplined, and stubborn to a fault, always pushing some kind of agenda and critiquing anyone who fell outside his current worldview. Cullen hated him. He hated him for being so self-assured that he could follow his own path without question. He hated him for refusing to bend to anyone's will but his own. He hated him for drawing others to his causes with nothing but the strength of his passion. He hated him for everything he was that Cullen wasn't.

Damn. He really was jealous, wasn't he?

A rustling in the bushes interrupted his thoughts. He assumed it was wildlife of some kind, but then he heard the familiar crunch of boots on snow and knew he wasn't that lucky. Maybe if he remained completely still he could go unnoticed. But the footsteps stopped nearby, and curiosity finally got the better of him. He wished he would have kept his eyes shut when he saw who it was.

Anders stood a few steps away, a handful of elfroot in his hands and more in the bag slung across his torso. He didn't look as smug as Cullen had expected him to be. Instead, his brows were drawn together in concern as he studied Cullen. "You're in pain," he observed, and Cullen was stunned by the sympathy in his voice.

"I'm fine," Cullen replied automatically, but Anders didn't listen, tucking the plants away in his bag and coming closer to look him over with a clinical eye.

"Headache? A bad one from the looks of it." He glanced down at his bag and said, "I was collecting these for Master Adan to restock our potions, but they're not very effective raw." He lifted his hands, but hesitated. "May I?"

Cullen ducked away from his touch, but the movement only triggered a bout of dizziness that nearly caused him to trip over his own feet. Anders instinctively reached out to steady him and he was too disoriented to push him away. He could smell the elfroot on the mage's fingers as he moved his hands from Cullen's shoulders to his jaw, gently cupping the sides of his face. Anders closed his eyes in concentration and Cullen moaned when the magic washed over him, realizing the sound was vaguely indecent as soon as he heard it, but he was unable to contain his relief as the shimmering wave of energy pushed back the tide of pain and replaced it with the comforting tingle of euphoria. His vision cleared, and he could see every tiny wrinkle on Anders' face, the flecks of gold in his eyes when he opened them again.

"Better?" he asked, and Cullen couldn't find his voice in order to answer, but his expression must have reassured Anders because he released him and took a step away. "Do you get these headaches often?" He squinted thoughtfully at Cullen. "They might be caused by something more serious."

Seeing the compassion in his eyes, Cullen remembered why he had never captured Anders in Kirkwall. He had seen the good the mage was doing in his clinic, and while he hadn't stopped resenting him, he had never been able to justify locking him up in the tower when Anders was finally doing something useful with his freedom. "It's nothing," he said finally, rubbing self-consciously at the back of his neck. "But thank you. I feel much better."

Anders nodded, but seemed less than convinced. "I could do a more thorough examination, just to make sure there's nothing else wrong."

"No," Cullen said quickly, raising a hand between them to keep him from moving closer. "That was thorough enough."

A wall seemed to come down behind Anders' eyes then and his lips twisted with a wry expression. "I make you uncomfortable, don't I?"

"Magic makes me uncomfortable. And you…well…" Cullen felt a blush rise to his cheeks unbidden, and Anders arched a brow. "You're rather good at it," he finished lamely.

A smirk crossed Anders' lips. "I must be. If someone were to judge by that sound you made earlier, they'd think that I—"

"Don't finish that sentence," Cullen ordered, already backing away. The look on Anders' face had triggered a flood of memories from their time in the tower. He knew the man was experienced—the Maker only knew how many beds the Templars had caught him warming over the years, so hungry for affection that he was willing to look just about anywhere to find it—and he had very little shame. Cullen, on the other hand, couldn't even consider the involuntary sound he had made without blushing.

"What?" Anders blinked. "I wasn't going to say anything dirty."

"It doesn't matter. I don't want to hear it." Stumbling back along the path, he babbled, "I have to go. I have a lot of work to do if we're going to close that breach any time soon." He could feel Anders watching him, but ignored the weight of his gaze. Someone needed to stay objective about the man or they were all doomed.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>** Yes, Cullen. That's exactly what you are. Objective. But he also feels awful, and as someone who deals with frequent migraines, I can relate. I also wish I had someone like Anders who could take the pain away...**


	13. Short-lived Victory

**Author's note: So I skipped straight to the party because like Varric in this chapter, I was a bit underwhelmed by closing the breach. I mean we go through all this stuff to accomplish this goal and the actual process is over in a flash. Also, I think it's more interesting to play up the contrast between the celebration and the battle right afterward.**

* * *

><p>Closing the breach had been astonishingly straightforward. One great push from Anders and the mages and the hole in the sky had simply snapped shut. It had seemed so simple that if Varric had been putting it into a story he would have had to do some major rewrites to make it feel anything other than anticlimactic. But that was the mark of a well-planned operation, wasn't it? Just because it looked easy didn't mean it hadn't taken a lot of work.<p>

And the effort had taken a visible toll on Anders. If it hadn't been for the surge of relief and elation that consumed the entirety of the Inquisition soon afterward, Anders probably would have have collapsed as soon as the task was complete. Instead, he had been swept up in the moment and was celebrating with the rest of them, being passed around for dances and congratulated at every turn. Varric watched this happen with bemusement, knowing that many of the people trying to bask in his glow now were the same people who had been so critical of him from the beginning.

The sounds of music and laughter rose on the crisp night air along with the scent of campfires and rich food, the atmosphere alone thick enough to intoxicate, though many of the celebrants had imbibed enough already to make the intoxication real. Wandering through the crowd, he spotted Cassandra standing on the ledge above the festivities, watching with a crease between her eyes and the shadow of a frown on her lips. Climbing up to join her, he teased, "You don't seem to be enjoying the party, Seeker."

"I'm enjoying it just fine," she replied in a grumpy tone that made it obvious just how false her statement was.

"By living vicariously through all the people actually enjoying themselves?"

"It was too easy," she said, shaking her head.

"What was?"

"Closing the breach. I don't trust it."

He didn't know how to reassure her since he was feeling a bit underwhelmed himself, but he could distract her, at least. He was good at that. "You really don't know how to relax, do you? Here, I'll give you a hint. Let's get you a drink and you'll start to feel better."

"Varric."

"Hey, I'll even offer to dance with you, and that's an offer few could resist."

"No," she replied, but her lips had turned up in a little smile and he counted that as something of a victory. "But thank you for trying."

"Any time, Seeker."

Wading back into the crowd, he saw Iron Bull spinning Anders around in a boisterous jig and nearly tripped over his own feet; that was a sight that he was going to have a hard time scouring from his mind any time soon.

"It's good to see him smile." The Tevinter mage was leaning against a building nearby sipping at a glass of wine while he watched the dancing pair.

"It is," Varric admitted, though he wanted to disagree on principle. He didn't know why, but something about Dorian irritated him. Varric suspected it was his obvious fixation on Anders, though he couldn't figure out why that would trouble him so much. It wasn't hard to see that the two of them had a lot in common. They'd probably even make a good pair, but Varric instinctively disliked the idea.

Breathless and laughing, Anders spun away from Iron Bull once the song was over and headed for the refreshments table to get a drink, saying over his shoulder to the qunari, "Thanks for the offer, but I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

"It will stay open indefinitely," Bull said, "just let me know if you change your mind."

"Tiny, did you just make a pass at Blondie?" Varric asked Bull with a laugh. Strangely, the thought of the qunari propositioning Anders didn't cause him the same concern as he had felt about Dorian. "I didn't figure he'd be your type."

"My type is fairly diverse," Bull admitted.

Regarding him curiously, Dorian asked, "Just how diverse, might I ask? Would you be interested in someone like our friend Varric here, for example?"

"Hey, leave me out of it," Varric said, waving his hands as he backed away. "I'm already in a committed relationship."

Bull didn't seem to notice his discomfort. Shrugging, he said, "I've been with dwarves before. The height difference is...challenging." The way he said the word implied that he was more than up to the challenge. "And Varric is a very attractive man. Just look at all that chest hair."

"Committed relationship," Varric repeated, his hand moving to Bianca.

"Easy come, easy go," Bull replied. Looking back at Dorian and giving him a thorough appraisal, he added, "But if you're asking for personal reasons, I don't usually go for Vints. Still...I might make an exception for you."

Dorian laughed. "Good to know."

Hoping that was the start of a beautiful relationship that didn't include Anders—or himself—Varric left them to their conversation and went looking for his friend. He found Anders in a quiet spot next to the tavern, drinking deeply from a mug of ale and attempting to keep his composure. Vivienne had cornered him, a regal expression on her features as she gazed at him over her wine glass, her pose far too aloof for such a casual celebration. Sera seemed to agree since she walked behind Vivienne and made a rude gesture in the Iron Lady's direction. Anders nearly choked on his ale, but Vivienne was too absorbed in what she was saying to notice.

"Your gambit may have paid off in the short-term. The breach is closed with the mages' help, but do you really think that their voluntary help in the midst of a crisis will be enough to earn anyone's trust? Mark my words, as soon as they're left to their own devices for a few days, they'll prove exactly how far they can be trusted. The circles were created for a reason, after all."

Anders' reply was smooth as silk, so perfectly formed that it was probably a quote from his manifesto. "Yes. To subjugate and suppress people unfortunate enough to be born with abilities that frighten the rest of the population."

Vivienne shook her head and smiled, though the expression had nothing to do with amusement. "You are such a zealot. The sheer quantity of facts you must constantly rationalize away or ignore must be dizzying."

"You would know better than I. Twisting the truth to suit your whims is the whole point of the Orlesian Game, isn't it? How do you ever manage to keep the truth separate from all the falsities you've conjured to support your arguments?"

"Darling, my truth is the only one that matters. Survival of the fittest."

"Of course. If only we could all aspire to such a singular position of privilege as you've found for yourself. Then maybe no one would ever have cause to complain. But there's a reason there's only one court enchanter. Only one mage in a position of power can be tolerated at a time." If he hadn't known Justice was gone, Varric would have expected to see a blue glow flickering in Anders' eyes. But according to Anders, he had espoused the mages' cause long before he joined with Justice; the spirit had simply given him the courage—and recklessness—to act. Still, Varric couldn't stand to listen to Anders lecture on the topic without feeling a bit uneasy.

"Blondie, you clearly haven't been drinking enough," he interrupted. "Your sentences are still entirely too coherent. And look! Your mug's empty. Let's go remedy that."

"Ah, and here's your pet dwarf, right on cue. Whatever would you do without his constant coddling?"

"What did you call me?" Varric demanded, instinctively stepping between her and Anders before he realized he was proving her point.

"Oh, don't take it so personally, Varric darling. Its more of a reflection on his weakness than it is a critique of you."

"That book I was considering writing?" Varric scowled. "I think I just discarded the idea."

She laughed. "But you've already cast me as the villain! Shouldn't this just prove the point?"

"The role is too good for you. Maybe I'll write you as some petty noble who appears to be the villain but turns out to be nothing but a lackey."

"And perhaps I will get your little fiction banned from publication," she said with a lazy smile, walking away as she spoke to ensure she would have the last word.

"Can you believe her?" Turning back to Anders, Varric had expected to see the mage's face flushed with anger, but he seemed distracted instead, head half-tilted as if listening to something only he could hear. "Blondie?"

Anders blinked and shook his head slightly. "Hm?"

"Something wrong?"

"I don't know." He looked thoughtfully at the wall around the village, his gaze unfocused as if he were seeing through it to something far away. "Just a weird feeling."

At that moment the alarm bell echoed through the village and the festivities fell abruptly silent.

"If you were having a premonition, it was a little too late to be helpful," Varric pointed out, but Anders was already moving and he lost him quickly in the chaos. By the time he was able to push through the crowd to the gate, the Inquisitions' leaders were already standing outside and staring at a massive army pouring over the hills. Flickering torches dotted the mountains, too many to count, and he felt his stomach clench. He was a storyteller and a businessman, not a soldier, and though he had fought more skirmishes than he could recall, he wasn't cut out for large scale battles. Hearing Cullen shouting orders at his troops, he wanted to do nothing more than to run back to the chantry and hide, but then he saw Anders' face, tight with anxiety and sickly pale. He followed the mage's gaze to the army cresting a ridge in the distance and his jaw dropped in shock.

"No. That's impossible."

"Corypheus," Anders whispered with a shudder.

The last time they had seen that freak, he'd been a corpse on the ground, but impossible or not, the twisted, mockery of a man looming inhumanly large above the rest of the army was unmistakable. Then Varric noticed the templar standing beside Corypheus: Samson. They'd run across the lyrium addict back in Kirkwall, a miserable waste of space who had sold a poor elf boy to Tevinter slavers just to get another fix. But the glimmer of red lyrium on his armor showed he had upped the ante on his addition even further.

Anders staggered back a step, breaths coming fast and shallow. "Varric," he said in a pleading tone. "Corypheus almost took control of me before. I can't…"

"Easy, Blondie," Varric said reassuringly, though he felt no less panicked. "It's going to be okay."

"Okay? He was dead!"

"I know. I know. We'll figure it out."

"The Red Templars went to the Elder One." Varric's attention shifted to the odd young man who had spoken. His curious wide-brimmed hat shaded half his face, and matted strings of hair hid the rest. "You know him?" the young man asked Anders. "He knows you. He's very angry that you took his mages."

"What was that, Cole?" Cullen turned around and followed Cole's gaze to Anders. "You know this Elder One? Explain. Now."

"We fought that thing—the Elder One—with Hawke," Varric answered when he saw that Anders was too distracted to reply. "But we didn't just fight him. We killed him."

"I remember the story," Cassandra confirmed. "But how can that be Corypheus? How could he be alive?"

"You're asking me? How the hell should I know? All of this shit is weird to me."

"But you said that Corypheus had some sort of hold over the Grey Wardens. He used their connection to the darkspawn to control them." Her gaze snapped to Anders. "And you're a Grey Warden."

"We must warn Blackwall," Leliana said, "and take precautions."

Finally finding his voice, Anders shook his head, "It doesn't make sense. Corypheus is a darkspawn—not just a darkspawn, but the original one. I should be able to feel the taint in him by now, but all I've felt is a premonition that something bad was about to happen. Something is different this time."

"We don't have time to discuss it," Cullen said, though the way he was biting at his lower lip said he wasn't happy about it. "We need to push them back before they get any closer." Turning back to his soldiers, he shouted, "Someone, man that trebuchet. Mages, you have sanction to attack."

The battle erupted around them then, and Varric and Anders got caught up in it along with everyone else. They followed orders and used the trebuchets to bury as much of the army in an avalanche as they could, but that bloody huge dragon turned the tide in an instant. A few sweeping passes and the village was on fire, their troops in disarray. Cullen called for a retreat and they started running back to the strongest building in the village, pulling survivors out of the burning rubble where they could along the way. But they couldn't possibly save everyone.

Varric's lungs were choked with smoke by the time they made it to the chantry, and he found a column to lean against while he tried to catch his breath. He scowled when he saw the young man Cullen had called Cole helping a wounded Chancellor Roderick inside, but to his surprise the Chancellor actually made himself useful for once. He told them about a path through the mountains, a way known only to a few, and he looked up at Anders in awe, obviously beginning to believe in his divinely chosen destiny. Varric had to clear his throat to hide the laugh building at the back of his throat. But Anders had gone silent and still, his expression guarded.

The Inquisition leaders debated their options in fevered tones, but Anders stood apart from them, listening but clearly thinking through options on his own. Then Cole spoke up. "The Elder One doesn't care about the village. He only wants you," he said looking sadly at Anders.

Anders nodded with determination and Varric felt a chill race down his spine. He had seen that expression on Anders' face before, an eerie peacefulness tempered by the desperation of having the future narrowed down to a single choice. The last time he had worn that expression he had blown up a chantry. Varric knew there would be no stopping him this time either.

"I'm going back out there," Anders said, his voice cutting through all the debate.

"What?" Cullen snapped, spinning back to face him. "That's suicide."

"Cole is right. Corypheus wants me. Everything else is just collateral damage. I can keep him occupied long enough for you to escape."

The Commander's mouth opened and shut, words failing him entirely. His brows furrowed as he looked at Anders, and Varric could feel the weight of his indecision from a few steps away.

"Keeping him distracted isn't enough," Cassandra said thoughtfully. "If that army follows us everything is over."

"The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche," Cullen said, voice faint but growing in strength as he spoke. "We could use the remaining trebuchets to trigger another one."

"But that would bury Haven entirely!" Josephine cried.

"No, he's right," Cassandra said. "It's the only way to stop them."

"But we need time to get everyone out first. And there'd be no chance for escape." Leliana looked at Anders sadly.

And there was Anders' heartbreaking little half-smile, right on cue. Varric's hands clenched into fists. "You don't need me to escape," Anders said reassuringly. "The breach is closed. If I can bury Corypheus, then this is all over." Shrugging, he added, "At least until he finds a way to come back again."

"What if Corypheus tries to control your mind?" Leliana protested.

"I've had a lot of experience fighting that sort of thing lately. But if I start to lose control, I'll end it quickly. Can I borrow one of your daggers, Cole?"

The young man offered up one of his blades with a frown and Anders tucked it into his belt easily as if he wasn't planning on using the knife to end his own life. Silence fell as everyone stared at him in shock. He swallowed, and then without ceremony, turned to leave.

Varric stepped forward to follow. "You're not going alone." Anders looked back at him with wide eyes, mouth flying open to argue, but Varric stopped him with a smile. "Corypheus is my responsibility too, you know. And you might actually consider an escape plan if you have someone with you."

"Count me in," Iron Bull agreed. "I'm itching to take a swing at that dragon!"

"I'm coming along as well," Dorian announced. "We're all too beautiful to die, so naturally we'll have to make it out alive."

Emotions raced each other across Anders' face and he closed his eyes as if to contain them. Nodding, he turned to the doors again with his head held high. "Let's go."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: I have a few references to character banter in this chapter (like the reference to the book Varric's writing about Vivienne). Hope they didn't throw anyone off if you didn't hear that dialogue in the game. I did tweak some of the dialogue a bit at the end too. In the game, it's just Cullen talking to the Herald at that point, but I liked the idea of everyone being part of the conversation. But I'd love to hear your thoughts. Feedback keeps me motivated!<br>**


	14. The Elder One

**Author's note: This one's pretty short and rather heavy on in-game dialogue. It also might be the last one I'll be able to post for a little while. I'm going to be very busy over the next several weeks and might not have time to post anything new. I'll do what I can, but I thought I'd warn you just in case.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>As they fought their way to the trebuchet, Anders realized that he never would have made it on his own. The army was too close now to be avoided and they could hardly move two steps without more red templars pouring over the walls. He was still astounded that anyone had volunteered to come with him, but that was emotional baggage that would have to be unpacked later. If he survived this. If any of them did. But they were getting close now.<p>

They had just turned the trebuchet when he heard a dragon cry and looked up to see the beast wheeling toward them.

"Yes!" Iron Bull shouted, but Anders pushed him back when the dragon swept toward them, flames pouring from its mouth.

"Run! I mean it, Bull."

The qunari finally listened when the flames got close enough for them to feel the heat, and then they were all running. Debris flew through the air and Anders lost his footing, head spinning as he tumbled over the snowy landscape and landed with a huff, the wind knocked out of him completely.

Squinting through the smoke, he saw the others still running, likely thinking he was right behind them as the dragon continued its pursuit. Good. They might escape the dragon. They wouldn't escape the avalanche once he used that trebuchet. The trebuchet! He exhaled in relief when he saw that it was intact. Hauling himself to his feet, he was halfway to it when the dragon came back along the path, blocking the way back to Haven.

He turned at the sound of a familiar voice growling from behind him. "Pretender! You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more." Corypheus paused, tilted his grotesque head at Anders and balked. "You! I recognize you now. You are one of the wardens of my prison, one of the fools who sought to destroy me."

That wasn't entirely correct, but Anders didn't feel like arguing. "Yes. That was me." Throat raw, he kept talking, inching toward the trebuchet with every word. "How did you survive, anyway?"

"Your understanding is not required. If you gain it, consider yourself blessed. But you will kneel." Fingers like claws reached out to Anders, curling in the air as if to clutch at something invisible. "Exalt the Elder One, the will that is Corypheus."

Anders braced for the attack, but felt...nothing. It was clear that Corypheus was attempting to manipulate him in the same way that he had before, but it didn't seem to be working.

"The anchor has changed you!" Corypheus gasped, anger burning in his eyes. "It protects you from my will. No matter. I will take it from you directly." He twisted his fingers again and pain exploded in the mark on Anders' hand, doubling him over in agony. "It is your fault. You interrupted a ritual years in the planning and instead of dying, you stole it's purpose. I don't know how you survived, but what marks you as touched, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens. And you use the anchor to undo my work. The gall!"

Struggling to keep moving despite the pain, Anders let Corypheus continue his grandiose speech, hoping the freak was in enough love with his own voice that he would fail to notice what Anders was doing. But before he could move another step, the creature grabbed him by his left hand, lifting him off the ground and continuing his assault on the mark—the anchor as Corypheus called it. Anders grimaced, struggling to reach the ground or find purchase on any surface within reach simply to ease the strain on his arm.

"I once breached the fade in the name of another, to serve the old gods of the empire in person," Corypheus continued, his putrid breath hitting Anders' in the face with every word. "I found chaos and corruption and dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more. I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world. Beg that I succeed. For I have seen the throne of the gods and it was empty!"

He flung Anders across the clearing, and Anders could hardly believe his luck when he landed against the trebuchet, painful though his landing was. At least the pain in his hand had finally ceased. He felt weak with relief.

"The anchor is permanent," Corypheus said mournfully. "You have spoilt it with your stumbling. So be it. I will begin again, find a way to give this world the nation and god it requires. But I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die."

When Anders looked up again, he saw a flaming arrow rising high in the sky, the signal that the rest of the Inquisition had gotten away safely. Summoning his remaining strength, he said, "If I'm dying today, then I won't be alone." As he pulled the trigger he added, "Let's see if the second time will be the charm."

A crack like thunder pealed out across the valley and Anders dove for cover, his instincts guiding him though he did not actually expect to find a place to hide. The last thing he remembered was falling. Then nothing but cold and darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: Sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger, but if you played the game you know things will probably work out. ;) The next chapter will be from Dorian's point of view and will probably include quite a bit of Cole, so you have that to look forward to!<br>**


	15. Still Alive

**Author's note: So sorry for the long delay. I just got back from a vacation and I didn't have a chance to do much with my story while I was away. But I should be back on track soon—at least as soon as I get over the jet lag.**

* * *

><p>Dorian huddled closer to the fire, so cold that he was even starting to look enviously at the Commander's ridiculous fur-lined coat. The camp was quiet around him, mournful even, and though he stayed silent to be respectful, he wanted nothing more than to talk just to fill the air with something other than the occasional moan of pain or whimper. When people spoke, they did so in whispered fragments, eyes downcast as the suffocating hush of snow swallowed their words.<p>

"Kittens and healing potions. So lonely. He used to smile more."

Flinching in surprise, Dorian looked at the greasy young man seated beside him. He didn't remember seeing him before, but he still didn't know many of the people in the Inquisition—and after today, there were many more members of the Inquisition he would never get the chance to meet. "What did you say?" he asked, but the boy seemed focused on the dwarf pacing on the other side of the fire.

"Always wanted to be a martyr. Finally found a cause worthy of him. Dead. He can't be dead. Need to go back. Look for him."

Confused, Dorian squinted at the young man—Cole, that was his name. He remembered that now. But Cole was focused intently on Varric as he spoke, almost as if he were speaking for the dwarf instead of himself. "Are you all right?"

Cole shifted to look at him and shivered as if shaking off a bad feeling. "He's in pain."

"Who is? Varric?"

"Yes. I wish I could help him." The sincerity in Cole's eyes was painfully pure, the sight almost enough to make Dorian forget his desire to rub snow into Cole's dirty hair until it came away clean.

Dorian sighed. "Nothing to do but give him time and space to grieve. He's lost a friend today."

"The Herald."

"Yes." Looking back at the fire, Dorian frowned. He hadn't known Trevelyan long, but he felt the man's loss keenly. He wished he would have looked back while they were running. If he had noticed that Trevelyan had fallen behind, then maybe he could have saved him. Might-have-beens weighed heavily on his mind, possibilities that had been taken from him now, buried along with Haven. But there was no point dwelling on regrets.

"My responsibility," Cole said suddenly. "Should have gone with him and made sure he came back alive." Cole was looking at Cassandra now, a crease between his brows. "Brave. Redeemed himself in the end."

"Are you...reading their minds?" Dorian demanded incredulously, but Cole ignored him, shifting to look at Iron Bull.

"Ten tons of beautiful and I ran away. Shouldn't have listened. I'll find you again and rip the scales from your hide. You're mine, dragon. But he told me to run. Selfless bastard. Should have saved himself."

Dorian watched the giant qunari as he gripped the pommel of his greatsword with a scowl. Edging in the opposite direction, Dorian looked at where his staff was propped against a box beside him. Though he liked Iron Bull, he couldn't feel comfortable in the presence of an angry qunari without having a weapon close to hand. "Why don't you look at someone else, Cole? I think I've heard enough of Iron Bull's thoughts for one day."

Looking up at him, Cole blinked and turned his head one way and then the other. Dorian cringed when he realized that Cole was about to start blurting out his own thoughts, but then Cole turned, looking urgently out at the snow beyond the edge of the firelight. "Cold. Freezing. Can't keep moving. Can't think. Is that light or hallucination? Must be hypothermia. So cold."

Dorian was on his feet before Cole finished. Just at the edge of the ridge he could see motion, a shadow moving over the snow with labored steps. Varric looked up at him in confusion when he walked past, but turned to follow.

"Where are you going?" Cassandra demanded.

"Andraste's flaming knickers," Varric hissed, running out into the snow as the figure ahead slumped. "Blondie! He's alive!"

Dorian was on his heels, ignoring the state of his robes as they dragged through the snow drifts. Hopeful shouts echoed over the mountaintop, the camp behind them suddenly full of voices and running feet. He didn't know which of them pulled Trevelyan from the snow, but it was a group effort, many hands lifting his unconscious body and bearing him back to camp. His skin was like ice, his face pale and streaked with blood, but he didn't seem to be gravely injured. Dorian thought back to the distance they had crossed, stopping periodically to warm themselves with fires before the cold took hold. How had Trevelyan walked all that way alone—never mind how had he escaped the avalanche or the hideous creature that had been leading the army?

"This is a miracle," Mother Giselle whispered. Normally Dorian would be inclined to disagree with such religious drivel, but he had no better explanation for the Herald's survival.

Cassandra joined them in carrying Trevelyan, her expression filled with wonder as she tenderly brushed snow from his coat. Varric was beside her, dampness on his ruddy cheeks shimmering in the firelight, though Dorian suspected the dwarf would claim the moisture was melted snow if anyone asked. The qunari joined them as well, taking more than his share of the load, though they all knew he could have effortlessly carried the Herald back to the camp on his own. But everyone wanted to help. Even Cullen had joined them, standing opposite Dorian and supporting the mage's shoulders, his expression difficult to decipher.

"I knew you would find a way to escape," he said softly, looking down at Trevelyan. "You always do."

Filing that statement away for later consideration, Dorian focused on helping the others position Trevelyan on a cot. Mother Giselle shooed everyone out of the tent in order to tend to the Herald's wounds, but Varric lingered, pulling a crate close to the cot and sitting down near the mage's head. Dorian and Cassandra hovered as well, so Mother Giselle sent them after various items: clean water, bandages. Cassandra followed the order immediately, a soldier's determination settling into her features, but Dorian hesitated near the tent flap, transfixed by the sight of the dwarf gently tucking Trevelyan's head to his chest and pressing a light kiss against his hair. Trevelyan unconsciously turned into the warmth, and Varric's gloved fingers tightened on his shoulder.

Dorian suddenly wished for that young man's company again, the one who could read minds. He turned to look for him, but then realized he had no idea what Cole looked like.

He turned back to look at the cot when he heard Trevelyan's muffled voice. "Varric?"

"Shh," Varric reassured. "You're safe. I've got you."

"Am I dreaming?"

Varric chuckled, stroking lightly over his hair. "Blondie, if you're dreaming about me, then you really need to work on your imagination."

"Or I'm in Isabela's dream. All this chest hair is warm, at least."

Varric laughed again, and this one was loud enough to make Mother Giselle to look up with a frown.

"Dorian."

Startled, Dorian turned to see Cassandra tugging at his sleeve. "Come on. We need to find the bandages."

Nodding reluctantly, Dorian allowed himself to be pulled away.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> **It was really interesting writing the aftermath of Haven from Dorian's point of view. We all know what the Herald went through trying to catch up, but it's kind of fun to see what everyone else was thinking while he was gone. And I now understand why so many people enjoy writing Cole. His perspective is a lot of fun!  
><strong>


	16. The Truth

**Author's note: I'm still trying to get caught up from my trip, so the next couple chapters might be a bit slower coming, but I'll do my best to get them up soon. No Cole in this chapter, but there will be some in the next one. **

* * *

><p>Varric was really sick of the snow. He'd never been an outdoorsy person to begin with, but in his opinion snow was about the worst environmental condition you could come across. It was cold, and when it got warm it melted which made a mess. The wind got colder blowing over it, and trying to wade through the stuff was as bad as slogging through sand. And they had been walking through it for what felt like days. Not to say he was ungrateful to be alive, but he would have been far more grateful to be warm and sheltered from the elements.<p>

They still had no idea where they were going, but at least no one was singing. The Inquisition's impromptu choir rehearsal the other night had quickly taken the top position on his list of most awkward things ever. The song had clearly bolstered spirits more than listening to the Inquisition's leadership argue, but Varric liked to leave music to the professionals and he knew he wasn't the only one. He hadn't been able to meet Blondie's eyes during the song for fear of losing his shit, but he had been able to feel the mage's discomfort even from a few steps away. He'd only gotten through the experience by focusing on the character quirks the music revealed about their companions. He hadn't expected Cullen to have such a nice singing voice, for example, and Leliana's training as a bard really showed when she took up the melody an octave above Mother Giselle. Still, he would be relieved if it never happened again.

The sun reflected brilliantly off the slopes ahead, and Varric squinted into the light. Solas and Anders were just returning from another scouting trip, and judging by the looks on their faces, they were encouraged by what they had found. Varric was just glad to see Anders back on his feet and keeping busy. Tensions had been high during the attack on Haven, and while the battle had taken its toll on everyone, Anders had borne the brunt of it. Varric had noticed sentiments shifting over the last few days, however, especially in the way many in the Inquisition deferred to Anders. Even Cullen and Cassandra had started seeking his opinion and asking him to resolve conflicts when they couldn't come to a decision on their own. Anders didn't seem to know how to take this newfound respect, but Varric wasn't surprised. Anders had sacrificed himself for their cause, and many thought his survival was nothing short of miraculous. The rumors of Andraste's Herald were only going to take on new proportions now that he had apparently managed to defy death a second time. It was such a great story of tragedy and redemption that Varric was considering writing it all down.

"Varric darling, you're thinking too hard."

Raising an eyebrow at Vivienne he scoffed, "What? Thinking's a crime now?"

"It is when you're doing it so loudly that no one around you can think."

"Oh, you're just worried I'll find some way to slander you in my new book."

"Hardly! As if you could come up with an insult that I couldn't turn to my advantage."

Overtaking him on the slope despite her delicate footwear, she wandered over to speak with Josephine, and Varric watched her departure with relief. Shaking his head, he noticed Dorian walking beside him on the other side. The Tevinter was tall enough that he had to be adjusting his strides in order to match Varric's pace, which meant he wanted to talk about something. Great.

"Okay, Sparkler, what is it?"

"Pardon?"

"I can feel you working yourself up to a question. Just spit it out."

Smirking, Dorian shifted his shoulders a bit as if to get comfortable. "Very well. You and Trevelyan. There's some history between you, isn't there?"

Varric had to think for a moment before he realized Dorian was talking about Anders. Then he nearly rolled his eyes. Restraining himself—barely—he said, "We've known each other a long time, if that's what you're asking."

"Interesting that. I mean, I wouldn't have expected a lifelong citizen of Kirkwall to spend a lot of time in Ostwick's circle tower."

He was fishing. Rather obviously. Varric didn't like it, but Dorian wasn't likely to stop until he found some answers. Varric could give him that much, even if they were all the wrong answers. "How much do you know about the Free Marches?" he asked.

Dorian frowned, pouting a little. "Admittedly, not that much."

"And mage circles outside Tevinter?"

A wrinkle had formed between Dorian's perfectly sculpted brows. "Just enough to know their mages don't get to wander freely about."

"True. They can be transferred, however, from one circle to another."

Dorian considered this thoughtfully. "So Trevelyan started out in Kirkwall? I thought his family was from Ostwick."

Careful not to confirm anything, Varric said, "Sometimes circles get full and they have to send a mage to another circle until they have an opening."

"Still, I don't understand how a mage living in one of your unnecessarily restrictive circles would have cause to meet a dwarven merchant."

Varric arched a brow up at Dorian. "Surely you realize what dwarven merchants are well-known for supplying."

Eyes widening, Dorian nodded. "Lyrium. Of course." He seemed very pleased with himself for connecting the dots. "So you were involved in the lyrium trade in Kirkwall, and what? You met Trevelyan while delivering supplies to the city's templars? Seems rather coincidental."

"Sparkler, ninety percent of all friendships start with a chance meeting of one sort or another. Its the connection made in that moment that determines whether it will be mere coincidence or fate." Varric was on a roll, the bullshit rolling off his tongue like butter.

Turning these thoughts over in his brain, Dorian walked in silence for a few strides. "That explains how you met, but only raises more questions. The two of you are obviously close. You share the kind of bond that only forms through shared experience and trauma. It's the sort of connection soldiers form during battle, a deep mutual trust and reliance on each others' instincts. I've seen the two of you fight together. You fight like two pieces of the same machine."

"Well we have been fighting together for a few months now."

"You know each other well enough to predict what the other person will do before they do it. That sort of rapport isn't something that develops over the course of a few months. And neither of you share it with anyone else in the Inquisition."

Varric shook his head. Dorian was like a dog with a bone-a very manicured and pampered dog, perhaps, but a dog nonetheless. "Some people just click. It's not that hard to explain."

Looking at Varric with a smug look in his eye, Dorian accused, "You've fought together before. And Trevelyan is too skilled at battle magic to be a circle mage who only used such techniques in lessons. Not to mention his talent for healing. I've seen less talented healers who earned a living with their skills."

"What do you want me to say?" Varric asked, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "That Blondie used to run around playing mercenary with me? That he spent all his free time offering his healing services to the poor and needy?"

Eyes narrowing, Dorian asked, "Is that what happened?"

"Are you kidding? That's ridiculous."

"Then what is the explanation? How do you and Trevelyan know each other so well? Are you long lost half-brothers? Survivors of some terrible tragedy? Secret lovers?"

Dorian had a vivid imagination, at least. There was no denying that. Varric hesitated, unable to think of a way out of the corner he had painted himself into other than lying outright. Before he could respond, Iron Bull fell back to join their conversation and took the decision away from him completely.

"His name isn't Trevelyan," the qunari said bluntly to Dorian, and the mage blinked in confusion, clearly trying to integrate this fact with what he thought he already knew.

"Tiny," Varric said in warning, wondering when Iron Bull had figured out that Anders wasn't who he said he was. Then he remembered that the qunari was a spy. He looked around anxiously to see if anyone else was in earshot, but luckily they had slowed down enough to separate themselves from the rest of the group.

"He won't stop until he has learned the truth," Bull pointed out. Focusing on Dorian he said, "You shouldn't have gone to the dwarf with your questions. He's been letting you spin yourself a false reality."

"Wait… So none of that was true?"

Iron Bull shook his head. "Nothing you came up with. Nothing he led you into thinking."

"Then what is the truth?"

"I suggest you look into recent history in Kirkwall. You'll find a mage's name that stands out from the rest and an event that changed that city forever. His name and his actions."

Dorian laughed. "That's it? You're going to make me do the research on my own?"

A grin split the qunari's lips. "I'd be happy to keep you company while you work, though I'm not sure how conducive my presence would be to your focus."

"Whatever you find out," Varric added, grinding his teeth together in irritation. "Keep it to yourself. There's a reason we haven't been broadcasting the truth to the whole Inquisition."

"Of course," Dorian said, a frown darkening his features.

"You should probably start with his book," Iron Bull suggested, nodding at Varric.

"Hard in Hightown?" Dorian exclaimed. "I could only get through two pages of that drivel before..." Varric's glare stopped him. "I mean, it's not exactly my cup of tea."

"Then you're in luck," Varric replied mildly, accustomed to this sort of critique by now. "He was referring to the Tale of the Champion."

Their conversation ended there, because in that moment they heard a cheer rising up from the front of the group. Anders and Solas stood at the top of the ridge, looking off at something in the distance, and Varric could feel in his bones that they had finally discovered their destination.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: What did you think of Detective Dorian? I think his investigative skills could use a little work, myself. But it seemed inevitable that he would figure out the truth.<br>**


End file.
